1 

HI 

m 

r/H 


J.  WILLIAM  I. 


:  1 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  01  EGO        i 


K4.94/5- 


WIND-HARP    SONGS 

BY 

J.  WILLIAM  LLOYD 


The  poets  are  thus  liberating-  gods.  The  ancient 
British  bards  had  for  the  title  of  their  order,  "Those 
who  are  free  throughout  the  world."  They  are  free, 
and  they  make  free.  EMERSON,  The  Poet. 

The  poet  has  a  new  thought ;  he  has  a  whole  new 
experience  to  unfold;  he  will  tell  us  how  it  was  with 
him,  and  all  men  will  be  the  richer  in  his  fortune. 

IBID. 

The  poet  also  resigns  himself  to  his  mood. 

IBID. 


AUTHOR'S   EDITION 


BUFFALO 

THE  PETER  PAUL  BOOK  COMPANY 
1895 


COPYRIGHT,  1895, 
BY  J.  WILLIAM  LLOYD. 


PRINTED   AND   BOUND   BY 

THE   PHTER   PAUL   BOOK   COMPANY, 

BUFFALO,    N.  V. 


DEDICATED    TO 

THE 
FREE  SPIRIT 


FORE  WORD 

Songs  of  my  winged-thoughts,  of  life,  nature,  love, 
and  liberty ;  composed  not  for  the  public,  but  my  own 
pleasure, — on  the  plains,  in  the  forest,  in  the  wake  of 
the  plow,  on  horseback,  on  the  crowded  street,  by  the 
bedside  of  death,  in  the  storm,  the  silence  of  midnight, 
and  when  the  face  of  the  God  of  Morning  blushed 
through  the  golden  tresses  of  Dawn. 

The  fire  burned  within,  the  flames  sang,  and  the 
free  winds  fanned  them  to  music. 

From  the  harp  of  fire,  with  the  wind's  touch,  came 
these,  and  the  writing  of  them  was  my  joy  and 
easement. 

I  have  no  apology. 

Poetry  is  not  to  be  excused.  Like  music  it  is  a  glory 
or  an  offence. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

DEDICATION 2 

FORE  WORD 5 

PROEM n 

THE  WIND-HARP  SONG       ....  13 

THE  WISH  OF  WOMANHOOD  .        .        .        .  17 

IN  TOUCH 17 

APHORISM  :    WOMAN 17 

MY  DEAD 18 

THE  SOUL  SUPREME 20 

CUPID 21 

FREEDOM 21 

I  AM  GLAD — ARE  NOT  You  ?    .        .        .  22 

ONLY  A  MEMORY 23 

MY  LADY  GENTLE  WONDERFUL          .        .  24 
THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY        .        .        .        .25 

TRUE  LOVE 26 

DEATH'S  WORD 27 

MOTHER 28 

EMILY  DICKENSON            .....  31 

REMEMBER 32 

THE  SMELL  OF  RAIN-WET  EARTH         .        .  33 

THE  MOON-SHARK 33 

MOUNT  WALT  WHITMAN         .        .        .        -34 

ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD           ....  36 

AZTEC  OF  THE  AIR 36 

POETRY           .......  37 

THE  DAY-BIRTH 38 

THE  WHITE  SWAN  OF  WINTER          .        .  38 

APHORISM  :    MYSTERY 38 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  WILD  TIGER-LILY  ....         39 

I  LOVE  MY  LOVE  IN  THE  MORNING  .  .  40 
THE  WHOOP-CRANE'S  CLANGOR  .  .  41 

THE  MOCK-BIRD 43 

WOMEN  POETS 44 

THE  HOSPITAL  AT  NIGHT       .        .        .        .45 

APHORISM  :     LIFE 45 

THE  GODS  ARE  DEAD  .        .        .        .46 

CLEOPATRA 47 

STORM-HEART  .        .        .  .        -49 

BY  MOUTHS  OF  SEA  WORMS  QUAINTLY 

CARVEN 50 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  TURTLE  .        .        .51 

A  LITTLE  RAMBLING  RILL          ...         52 

No  FLAG 5.S 

APHORISM  :     LOVE  OF  OTHERS  .        .         56 

SONNET  TO  A  WHITE  LADY    ....     57 

DESERT  VOICES 58 

AUTUMN  59 

lNGLE-Lo\V 59 

APHORISM  :  KEY  OF  PLEASURE  .  .  -59 
WILD  ROSES  AND  MAIDEN  HAIR  .  .  60 
NATURE  AND  I  ARE  GLAD  .  .  .  .61 

REVERIE 62 

CHERRY  BLOSSOMS 63 

APHORISM  :    LUCK  IN  LOVE       ...         63 

HAIL,  COMRADE  ! 64 

"LIBERTY  ENLIGHTENING  THE  WORLD"         67 

MY  WOMEN 68 

A  WINTER  MORNING  WALK  ...  69 
A  FAIR  WOMAN'S  HAIR  .  .  .  .70 

STORM  LESSON 71 

APHORISM  :    GENIUS 72 

MY  WITCH  FLAMES 73 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

IN  A  CEMETERY        ......     74 

APHORISM  :     PERFECTION  IN  NATURE       .         75 

LOVE  WAS  RED 75 

HOMELESS 77 

IN  A  PRISM 77 

EPICUREAN    .        .        .        .        .        .        .         Si 

SELF 82 

I  DRIFTED  LIKE  A  WIND-BLOWN   LEAF  TO 
DAY          82 

A  FACE  SERENE 83 

EVENING     ........     84 

A  SONG  OF  SAD  LOVE        ....         85 

BALLAD  OF  THE  GREEN,  GREEN  SEA    .        .     92 

THE  LATTER  DAYS 94 

ONE  HAPPY  HOUR  .        .        .        .        -94 

CHOCOLATE 95 

You  STOOD 95 

APHORISM  :     POETRY 96 

A  LARGER  LIFE        ......     96 

GREATNESS  ......         97 

CRANFORD  WATER 98 

APHORISM  :    LOVE 98 

PLACE  ME  AGAIN,  I  PRAY,  GREAT  FATE  !  98 
A  SOUVENIR  VILLANELLE  .  .  .  -99 
THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENCE  ....  100 
THE  LITTLE  BROWN  OWL  .  .  .  100 

TRIOLET 101 

OF  AUTUMN  WINE 102 

THE  DISINHERITED  ,  103 

LOVE  is  A  RIDDLE 104 

AN  IDYL  OF  THE  BEACH  ....  105 
AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HILLS  ....  105 
SUNSET  ON  HOPATCONG  ....  106 
APHORISM  :  RECONCILIATION  .  106 


x  CO.VTENTS. 

PAGE 

FIREFLIES 107 

THE  LODGE 108 

SCARLET  TANAGER 108 

I  DREAM  IN  THE  AMBER  AUTUMN         .        .  109 

ANEW  no 

To  LIFT  ONE'S  HEAD no 

APHORISM:     HEALTH          .        .        .        .       in 

A  TKOPIC  HOPE 112 

A  MEMORY  SWEKT 119 

A  KNIFE  OF  AGATE 120 

So  WE  CARE  NOT 121 

THE  MELODY 122 

THERE  ARE  LOVES  AND  LOVES         .        .       123 

TWENTY  KISSES 123 

MY  SOUTH 124 

APHORISM:    JOY  OF  THE  MOMENT        .        .  125 

BLACK  ROBIN .125 

A  DREAM  OF  DREE 126 

THE  SYLVAN  SINGERS         .        .        .        .127 

THE  WORLD 130 

SOUL  AND  SOIL 131 

ONE  MORE  SONG 131 


PROEM 

Give  me  a  fending  thought,  a  subtle  state,  a  vivid  word ! 

Let  me  within  the  veil  and  let  me  learn  ! — 

With  every  sun  that  burneth  to  its  hills  of  sleep  I  burn, 

With  every  leaping  lightning  flash  I  yearn  ; — 

Let  all  this  beatify  be  with  me  and  grow 

Until  the  open  sesame  of  secret  joy  I  know, 

Until  I  tremble  with  the  deep  surprise,  and  stirred, 

Can  pipe  full-throated  music  like  a  bird  ! 

Ah,  "would  that  1  might  be  a  singer,  too  ! 
That  this  half-kindled  music  in  my  soul 
Might  burn  melodiously  athwart  the  scroll 
Of  human  memories,  in  fadeless  view  ! — 
Touching  to  joy  the  lutes  of  life  anew, 
Re-echoed  long  where  kindred  spirits  meet, 
Where  high  endeavors  mock  at  toil-worn  feet, 
And  restless  natures  noble  aims  pursue  ! 

I  would  my  song  could  kiss  with  lover's  lips  ! 

Could  weave  all  charms  whereby  mens  thoughts  are  drawn, 

And  speak  to  shaken  hearts  a  guiding  wcrd  ! — 

My  lay  could  paint  the  sea  with  wind-sped  ships, 

Paint  waiting  skies  with  herald  fires  of  dawn, 

And  breathe  a  bugle  note  to  souls  unstirred ! 


THE  WIND-HARP  SONG. 

I  SING  a  wind-harp  song, 
Dreamily  musical, 
Strange  and  faint  and  clear  ; 
Beneath  the  steady  stars, 
Thro'  the  dim,  sweet  night, 
Floating, 
Mystically  floating. 

List  !— 
O  listen  ! 

The  petaled  stars  are  blooming, 

In  the  skies,  serenely  lifting  ; 

Their  light  in  the  weird  woods  faintly  falling 

The  dark  woods,  dim  and  damp, 

Where  the  fern  leaves  droop, 

And  all  the  trees  stand  waiting, 

Silent,  alive,  waiting 

Till  you  have  gone 

And  they  may  whisper  and  shiver 

And  move  at  will. 

But  now  they  watch, 
With  their  many  eyes,  attentive, 
Gravely  silent  and  waiting, 
Knowing  much  and  remembering. 


14  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

When  you  have  gone, 

Then  will  they  beckon  and  whisper, 

Stealthily,  stealthily, 

Murmuring  sagas  olden. 

Old,  old  things  they  remember, 

Of  the  burnt-out  years, 

Which,  past-ward, 

Like  smoke-puffs,  dim,  are  drifting  ; — 

In  fine  ineffable  whispers, 

Each  to  each,  they  utter 

Stories  of  battle  and  murder  ; 

Beasts  and  birds  and  their  hunting  ; 

(The  dead  bones,  buried  beneath, 

Their  roots  are  sluggishly  sucking); 

Black  nights  and  sobbing  tempests  ; 

The  weeping  of  rain  ; 

Long  lights  and  shadows  of  mornings  ; 

And  sultry,  slumberous  noons. 

In  the  still  nights 

The  owl, 

Soundless  from  tree  to  tree 

Flitting, 

Hears  it  all,  and  ponders, 

Till  his  eyes  grow  great  with  wonder, 

On  his  head  the  feathers  rise, 

Solemnly  ponders, 

Filled  with  wonder  and  wierdness  and  laughter. 

The  winds, 

Whistling, 

Singing, 

From  far  away  winging, 


THE  WIND-HARP  SONG.  15 

Tell  their  tales  of  Thence  and  Thither, 
And  Yonder  Lands, 
Over  the  Sun-fall  Hills, 
The  Sun-rise  Sea. 

And  the  dusky  winds, 

Trailing  thro'  the  black,  vague 

Negative 

Of  Night  ;  — 

Winds  woven  from  spirits,  flitting  ; 

The  breath  of  panthers  ; 

Of  murdered  men  smitten  down  in  the  darkness  ; 

Of  lovers  sighing  "closer  ! — closer  !  " 

In  warm  bowers  under  the  moon, 

Secretly  pressing  flesh  against  flesh  ; 

Zephyrs  from  waving  wings  of  vampires, 

Kissing,  pricking,  drinking  the  warm  blood  ; 

Air  currents,  rippling  tremulous 

From  myriad  motions 

Of  multitudinous  creatures — 

Running,  leaping,  crawling,  flying, 

Citizens  of  the  void,  mysterious, 

Situate  between  the  pulses  of  life  called  Day  ; 

Steams  ; 

Malaries  from  the  marshes  ; 

Dreams  ; — 

Tell  also  all  the  wisdom, 

All  the  romance  of  their  substance. 

And  the  stars 

Fling  down 

Ineffable  music, 

Tinkling  like  jewels, 

From  all  their  aerial  dancing. 


16  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

And  the  moon 

Burns  a  white  and  singing  flame  ; 

Singing  of  mystery, 

Madness, 

Love, 

The  burning  of  beautiful  eyes 

Uplifted, 

And  the  slow,  electric  sliding  of  hands, 

Tremulous, 

Thrilling, 

Caressive. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Notes  of  the  wind-harp  song 
In  the  star-ray, 
The  fish-scale  glitter, 
The  rainbow  over  the  fountain, 
The  black  shadow, 
The  moon's  mystery, 
The  wind's  whisper, 
The  brazen  note  of  the  great  crane  ; 
The  fine  voices 
Of  growing  grasses, 
Armorous  flowers, 
Motherly  fruit, 
Seed  laughter ; 

Banks, 

Bees, 

Bird  music, 

Clouds, 

Distance     .... 

Sleep. 


IN  TOUCH. 


THE  WISH  OF  WOMANHOOD. 


THIS  is  the  secret  wish,  \ 

The  prayer  of  womanhood  : — 
"  Give  me  a  friend  who  reads  my  heart ! 
Let  me  be  understood  !  " 


IN  TOUCH. 

"  I  "RUE  natures  are  in  touch 
1       With  all  things  beautiful- 
The  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 
Winds, 
Wildlings, 
And  each  other. 

Their  loneliness  is  such 

As  solitude  relieves, 

Art, 

Or  the  rare,  sweet  reprieves 

Of  souls,  akin, 

Close  met. 


Every  woman  is  an  undiscovered  country. 


iS  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


MY  DEAD. 

AND  you  are  dead,  my  beautiful,  beloved, 
My  inmost  love,  my  sweet,  dark,  gentle  friend; 
No  more  the  light  from  your  brown  eyes,  so  soft, 
Shall  be  the  radiance  of  my  humble  home  ; 
No  more  your  voice  shall  welcome  back  from  toil ; 
No  more  your  soft,  brown,  clinging  tress  shall  frame 
With  glinting,  silken  charm  your  sweetest  face  ; 
No  more  that  head  upon  my  breast  shall  lie, 
With  fragrant  breath  perfuming  all  my  beard — 
Soul-beautiful,  I  would  have  died  for  thee  ! 

No  more  ! — I  mind  we  often  talked  of  death, 
How  that  our  final  change  was  like  a  sleep 
In  which  we  dreamed  ourselves  away,  away, 
Into  the  stream  that  sparkled  in  the  sun, 
Into  the  breeze  that  whispered  in  the  pine, 
The  bud,  the  blade,  the  inconstant  flower, 
The  mobile  cloud  that  dappled  heaven's  dome, 
The  lightning's  flame  that  split  the  leafy  oak, 
The  soft  blue  haze  that  hid  in  sylvan  shades, 
Away,  away,  till  we  were  wholly  gone  ; 
Forming  new  life  within  a  hundred  lives  ; 
Held  fast  within  the  circles  infinite  ; 
Unconscious,  oft,  that  we  had  lived  before  ; 
Ofttimes  unknowing  we  were  living  still  ; 
Absorbed  into  the  members  of  the  Whole — 
Nirvana. 

Ah!     It  was  not  wise  to  weep, 
We  said,  in  this  short  life  so  strangely  sweet, 


MY  DEAD.  19 

(I  have  not  wept)  or  make  a  moan  at  death 

(I  have  not  moaned),  but  calmly,  healthfully, 

With  conscious  joy,  we  each  should  pluck  the  blooms 

Within  our  reach  ;  and  calmly,  restfully, 

Each  one,  when  tired,  should  fall  on  sleep  in  peace, 

Without  regret  or  fear,  as  knowing  well 

The  worth  and  worthlessness  of  life. 

O  sweet, 

O  wise,  without  regret  or  fear  you  slept ; 
And  I — looked  camly  on  your  dying  face, 
And  I  looked  calmly  in  your  open  grave  ; 
Calmly  I  go  to  reap  the  fruits  of  life, 
Within  the  precious  hours  I  keep  awake, 
This  brief,  swift-changing  time  that  I  am  wan, 
Until  I  too  shall  sleep. 

O  love,  O  sweet, — 

Perchance  within  our  dreams  to  meet ! — mayhap 
To  kiss  and  flow  together  in  the  stream, 
To  laugh  and  murmur  'neath  the  mossy  stone, 
To  drift  and  eddy  in  the  placid  pool, 
Our  eyes  in  bubbles  smiling  side  by  side  ; 
Mayhap  to  rise,  sun-lifted,  in  the  steam, 
To  float  above  the  green,  beneath  the  blue, 
To  fall  in  dancing  drops  upon  the  corn, 
To  flash  in  forking  flames  athwart  the  night, 
Or  call,  or  whisper,  in  the  whirling  wind  ; 

It  may  be  I  shall  swell  the  piping  throat 
That  sings  beside  some  sylvan  nest,  while  you 
May  warm  the  breast  that  warms  the  spotted  eggs  ; 
Just  as  I  sang,  erstwhile,  in  wildwood  home, 
When  you,  at  eve,  were  with  our  nesting  babes — 
Ah  well !     Farewell !     My  lips  repeat  our  lore  : — 


20  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Be  brave,  be  wise,  be  happy — this  is  life — 
You  taught  in  death,  I  live  to  teach  it  true  ; — 
Soul-beautiful  !  beloved  !  I  would  have  died 
For  thee  !     I  would  have  lived  for  thee. 


THE  SOUL  SUPREME. 

1SING  of  a  vision  far, 
Of  a  thought  on  high  things  set, 
Of  a  sight  serene, 
And  a  purpose  clean, — 
A  pleasure  in  all  things,  great  and  small, 
Loves  and  loss  and  the  fates  that  fall, — 

Power  to  hold  or  forget. 
(  The  fountains  are  clear  as  spar.'} 

Of  the  happy-wise,  sing  I, 
Consciously,  ever  to  add  ; 
With  their  search  sublime 
Thro'  space  and  time, 
Their  solemn  delight  in  all  things  true, 
Their  child-like  joy  in  all  things  new, 

Simple  and  sweet  and  glad. 
( Cloud/ess  and  blue  the  sky. ) 

The  Overlook  my  theme, 
And  the  life  in  the  Lifted  Land  ; 
Where  the  nights  have  balm, 
And  the  days  are  calm, 
The  passions  serve,  and  the  charms  obey, 
And  the  brain  is  sane  that  holdeth  sway, 

Gentle  and  firm  the  hand. 
(Is  it  but  a  dream  ?) 


FREEDOM.  21 

I  sing  of  the  soul  supreme, 
Of  a  spirit  erect  and  free, 
Too  far  above 
To  be  harmed  by  love, 
Or  fear,  or  hate,  or  gain,  or  loss, 
Or  to  stake  its  joy  on  a  gambler's  toss, 

Hold  self-empery. 
(How  the  white  peaks  gleam.'] 


CUPID. 

O  CUPID  is  a  honey-bee, 
So  it  seems  to  me, 
With  a  secret  sting 
And  much  honey  : 

In  rosy  hours, 
Ravisher  of  flowers 
In  dainty  bowers  : 

Musical  of  wing, 
Builder  of  fair  homes, 
Yet  roams 
With  dalliance,  he. 


FREEDOM. 

"REEDOM  is  this  to  me— 
The  Remedy. 


WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


I  AM  GLAD— ARE  NOT  YOU? 

WHEN  all  is  done,  and  there  are  none  to  love 
me, 

When  all  is  done,  and  flowers  bloom  above  me, 
When  all  is  done,  and  all  men  shall  forget  me, 
When  all  is  done,  and  naught  of  fate  can  fret  me — 

All  the  East  will  flush  as  fairly  as  it  now  does,  in 

the  mornings  ; 
All  the  birds  will  sing  as  sweetly,  spite  of  Death 

and  all  his  warnings  ; 

Lips   will    kiss    and  hearts  go  thrilling,   spite  of 
Time's  ironic  scornings, 
Then,  as  now  ! 

I  am  glad  it  will  be  so — 

Are  not  you  ? 
I  am  glad  the  streams  will  flow 

As  they  do  ; 

I  am  glad  the  sun  will  shine, 
-    And  the  vines  will  bloom  and  twine, 
And  the  autumn  spill  its  wine 

Through  and  through, 

Just  the  same, 
Whether  you  and  I  exist, 
Or  are  not  so  much  as  mist, 
Or  the  memory  of  a  name 

Men  allow. 


ONL  Y  A  MEMOR  Y.  23 


ONLY  A  MEMORY. 

ONLY  a  memory  is  the  maid 
Who  loved  me  true  in  the  young-love  days, 
The  wandering  days  of  light  and  shade, 
Of  toil  and  search  in  devious  ways — 
Ah  ! — little  thought  I  she  would  be 
Only  a  memory. 

Only  a  memory  every  charm, — 
The  music  gone  with  the  passing  breath, 
Each  swaying  grace  of  act  and  form 
Forever  still  in  the  couch  of  Death  ; 
Oh  dearest  love  ! — are  you  to  me 
Only  a  memory  ? 

Only  a  memory,  tone  and  word, 
The  tender  care  of  the  thoughful  brain, 
The  gentle  touch  that  my  spirit  stirred, 
The  woman's  ruth  at  the  world's  wide  pain, 
The  dauntless  will  that  would  be  free — 
Only  a  memory. 


To  labor  and  love  is  life  sublime  ; 
To  labor  and  load  an  argosy 
Sailing  away  on  the  tides  of  Time 
To  the  shores  of  a  dim  Futurity, 
To  sail  and  serve  when  we  shall  be 
Only  a  memory. 


24  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Our  ships  float  on,  my  parted  love, 
White  their  sails  on  a  sun-kissed  sea, — 
The  waves  below  and  the  winds  above, 
Waft  our  freights  to  the  would-be-free, — 
To  sail  and  serve  when  sunk  are  we — 
Only  a  memory. 


MY  LADY  GENTLE  WONDERFUL. 

/""**  ENTLE,  wonderful  is  my  fair, 

\J     My  sweet    dark    love    with    the    unnamed 

charm, 

With  the  clinging  cloud  of  dusky  hair, 
Deep  welling  eyes  of  tender  care, 
And  magnet  arm. 

Gentle,  wonderful  is  her  touch, 
The  silk-soft  thrill  of  her  little  hand, 

0  who  can  tell  why  its  spell  is  such  ! 
Or  tell  at  all  why  it  means  so  much, 

Simple  yet  grand. 

Gentle,  wonderful  is  her  voice — 
I  have  in  my  store  no  figure  fit ; 

1  can  but  tell  that  it  fixt  my  choice  ; 
I  can  but  say  that  the  winds  rejoice 

To  carry  it. 


THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY.  25 


THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY. 

OBEATIFUL,    bright  Greeks,  naked,  flower- 
crowned, 

Elate  with  strength  and  grace  of  human  life, 
Types,  evermore,  of  naturalness  in  man, 
And  rosy,  fresh  and  dewy  things  in  youth, — 
To  me  thy  gem-like  songs  are  full  of  light. 

The  grace  of  bleating  kids  and  fawns  that  skip 

Upon  the  outlined  rocks  and  peaks  against 

The  opal  sky  of  dawn  is  theirs  ;  the  flush 

Of  sunrise  pink  upon  the  marble  cliffs  ; 

The  wash  and  drowsy  lap,  most  musical, 

Of  waves  rippling  the  blue,  Aegean  sea  ; 

The  bubbling  laugh  of  fountained  nymphs  among 

Thy  hills,  rising  to  greet  the  morning  sun  ; 

The  song  of  blackbirds  in  the  myrtle  groves  ; 

The  fluting  of  the  little  satyr  lads 

That  herd  thy  goats  and  bask  about  thy  rocks  ; 

The  sanity  of  joy  ;  the  dignity 

And  charm  of  simple,  healthful  life  ;  the  mirth 

And  beauteous  blossoming  of  freeest  love ; 

Wisdom  most  true,  and  penetrative  wit. 


26  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


w 


TRUE  LOVE. 

HAT  is  true  love  ?     Is  it  this  : 
Only  on  one  mouth  to  kiss  ? 


Only  on  one  breast  to  lie  ? 
Only  for  one  touch  to  sigh  ? 

Only  in  one  soul  to  be 
Shrined  in  love's  idolatry  ? 

To  have  and  and  hold  a  human  heart 
Sole  for  self,  a  slave,  apart  ? 

Is  this  true  love  ?     It  may  be  ; 
It  is  not  true  love  to  me. 

Love  most  true  is  this,  I  deem  : 
To,  in  love,  be  what  I  seem  ; 

To  be  always  true  to  trust, 
Though  the  years  go  back  to  dust ; 

To  be  like  a  harboring  bay, 
Where  rny  loves,  at  anchor,  may 

Lie  forevermore,  secure, 
In  a  love  that  will  endure  ; 

To  speak,  in  love,  the  simple  truth 
Tenderly,  in  manly  ruth 

Of  a  woman's  agony, 

Should  Love  speak  deceivingly  ; 


DEATH'S   WORD.  27 

To  be  always  frank  and  clear 
To  the  hearts  that  hold  me  dear, 

Though  they  love,  and  love  again, 
Others  of  the  sons  of  men, 

Though  the  lips  that  I  may  know 
On  still  other  lips  may  glow, 

Though  another  love  is  first, 
My  love  must  not  be  the  worst. 

What  my  lovers  love  to  me 
Appeals  for  generous  sympathy. 

As  they  change  not,  nor  will  I, 
But  will  give  the  sure  reply. 

Making  answer  aye  the  same, 
When  in  love  they  speak  my  name, 

When  they  call  me,  calling  clear : 

"  Love,  O  hear  me  !"...."!  am  here  !  " 


This  is  true  love,  large  and  free, 
Love's  reliability. 


DEATH'S  WORD. 

FOR  Death,  but  one  word  hath  full  eloquence, 
That  great  unvoiceable  whose  name  saith — 
Silence. 

*  ***** 

But  one  word  holds  all  eloquence  of  Death  : — 
That  undefined,  unspeakable,  which  Silence  saith. 


28  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


MOTHER. 

O  MOTHER,  calm  and  kind, 
The  Friend  of  Peace, 
Lo,  you  have  found  at  last 
The  long  release. 

Musing,  we  say  farewell, 

For  what  is  Death  ? 
Or  why  does  man  receive 

Or  lose  his  breath  ? 

There  is  no  answer  here, 

Nor  anywhere, 
In  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 

Or  upper  air. 

We  live  in  mystery, 

And  when  we  die 
No  answer  has  the  Sphinx 

To  quest  or  cry. 

We  act  our  little  part, 

Or  well  or  ill, 
Then  pass  with  pallid  lips 

Forever  still. 

We  gag  our  clamorous  doubts 

With  platitudes, 
And  stoutly  feign  the  faith 

That  still  eludes. 


MO  THER.  29 


But  whether  we  believe, 

Or  feign  we  do, 
We  all  remain  the  same — 

We  do  not  know. 

Faith  is  but  willful  hope, 

And  proofless  still ; 
Faith  never  changed  a  fact 

And  never  will. 

The  simple  ever  hold 

That  virtue  saves  ; 
The  good  go  down,  they  say, 

To  blameless  graves. 

Ah,  mother,  you  were  wise 

When  that  you  said 
You  troubled  not  tho'  all 

The  dead  were  dead. 

For  if  the  dead  woke  not 
Their  sleep  endured, 

And  life  had  sickness,  oft, 
That  nothing  cured. 

It  did  not  trouble  you, 

Nor  does  it  me, 
Whether  we  live  so  long, 

Or  endlessly. 

Life  must  be  aye  the  same, 
Both  gold  and  dross, 

Virtue  and  vice,  joy,  pain, 
And  gain  with  loss. 


30  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

In  earth,  or  heaven,  or  hell 
The  law  must  hold, 

The  see -saw  rise  and  fall 
With  rhythm  old. 

And,  mother,  you  have  seen 

The  all  of  it, 
Ten  billion  years,  I  deem, 

Could  add  no  whit. 

But  it  may  be  you  find 

Continued  life, 
Another  world  of  joy 

And  care  and  strife. 

Or  it  may  be  you  sleep 

The  utter  sleep  ; 
Forever  from  the  crowd 

Who  laugh  and  weep. 


Your  life  was  very  sad, 

But  very  sweet, 
You  walked  in  peaceful  paths 

With  gentle  feet. 

You  made  an  atmosphere 

Of  kindly  grace, 
You  were  beloved  by  all 

That  saw  your  face. 

You  taught  us  to  be  true, 

As  you  were  true, 
To  face  the  naked  soul 

And  look  it  through. 


EMILY  DICKINSON.  31 

I  thank  you  for  that  word, 

Nor  can  forget, 
Farewell ! — most  faithful  friend — 

My  "mother"  yet. 
MAY,  1892. 


EMILY  DICKINSON. 

IT  seems  to  me  you  sing  a  song 
That  startled  every  one  ; 
Odd  intergrowth  of  heathen 
And  New  England  Puritan. 

Your  art  is  like  a  Japanesque  , — 
Perspective  and  detail 
Are  very  independent, 
But  the  picture  pleases  well. 

Suppose  a  Quaker  wood-bird 
To  throw  a  parrot  wing, 
Talk  Manx  and  Hindostanee, 
And  then  go  back  and  sing 

Wierd  bits  and  beautiful, 
A  Concord  touch  or  two, 
Lyric  thought,  so  stated 
As  no  one  else  dare  do. 


32  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


REMEMBER. 

DEAR  friend,   remember  how  we  walked  this 
Park, 

All  safe  in  very  heart  of  fierce  New  York, 
And  felt  the  bright  sun  with  the  winds  of  Spring, 
And  saw,  to-day,  the  late  snow  on  the  grass, 
And  saw,  the  next,  the  dandelions  appear, 
And  marked  the  robin's  breast  against  the  green. 

Remember  how  I  read  you  verses  in  these  nooks, 
Hard  by  the  little  pool  among  the  rocks, 
Where  ran  the  music  of  the  little  stream, 
And  your  soft  tones  made  music  sweeter  still  : 

Remember  how  we  wooed  the  squirrels  to  come, 
And    saw    the    seals,    and  gave  the    "beasties" 

sweets, 
And  talked  of  gentle  things,    and  things  remote 

from  man  ; 
And  talked  of  simple  things,  and  joys  that  have  no 

sting  ; 

Letting  our  hearts  flow  on  like  little  brooks 
That  sing  beneath  the  sun,  and  were  as  gods 
Or  little  children,  free  and  wandering  here, — 
And    knew  the  Gentle   Life  and  felt  the    Great 

Content. 


THE  MOON-SHARK.  33 


THE  SMELL   OF  RAIN-WET  EARTH. 

THE  smell  of  rain-wet  earth  upon  the  air, 
And  rose  leaves,  wet  and  flashing  : 
The  fragrance  floats  me  back,  all  unaware, — 
I  see  that  love-white  face  divinely  fair 
Again — and  drooping  head  with  braided  hair — 
Half  know  the  fountain  plashing, 
The  smell  of  rain-wet  earth  upon  the  air, 
And  rose  leaves  wet  and  flashing. 


THE  MOON-SHARK. 

IN  the  evening  sky,  to  the  eastward,  thro'  cloud 
waves  long  and  dark, 

The  half-moon's  tip  was  cutting  like  the  fin  of  a 
golden  shark. 


34  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


MOUNT  WALT  WHITMAN. 

WHAT  !  is  Walt  Whitman  dead  ? 
Nay,  it  cannot  be,  for  the  mountains  do  not 

die! 
They  say  he  is  dead,  but  the  difference  does  not 

appear ; 

For  he  is  a  mountain, 
A  great  gray  rock, 
Rugged,  alone,  forever  ; 
And  the  mountains  endure,  sublime,   motionless, 

and  fixed  before  us  ; 

They  touch  the  sky,  and  we  must  see  them,  and  we 
cannot  forget. 

Have  you  ever  considered  how  marvelous  a  moun 
tain  is  ? 

With  its  white  head  among  the  stars, 
Its  foundations  broad  as  the  bases  of  all  things, 
Deep  as  the  center  of  the  world's  heart ; 
A  witness  of  all,  and  of  the  order  of  all, 
Surveying  the   centuries,  and   the   scratches   man 
makes  in  the  surface  of  things,  and  the  coming 
and  going,  like  shadows,  of  the  nations  : 
Familiar  with  the  red  whips  of  the  lightning,   and 

the  deep-throated  thunder  ; 
With  night,  and  the  great  tempests,  and  the  wide 

winds  of  destiny ; 

The  changing  worlds  of  vapor,  the  awful  solitudes 
under  the  stars,  and  the  white,  mysterious 
movings  of  moonlight : 


MOUNT  WALT  WHITMAN.  35 

Full  of  great  voices,  solemn  music,  sweet  songs, 
and  the  embracing  silences  of  the  upper  air  ; 

The  roar  of  avalanches,  the  screams  of  eagles,  the 
melody  of  falling  streams,  the  love-whistle  of 
little  birds  nesting  by  the  blue  tarns — 

The  blue  tarns  among  the  gray  rocks  (the  wild  fowl 
know  them)  girt  with  green  pines,  placid,  re 
flecting  like  mirrors  : 

Rich  with  mines  of  the  white  ore  and  the  yellow, 

Iron  for  strength,  and  coal  for  heat, 

And  radiant,  glittering  gems  : 

With  slopes  and  valleys  where  vines  grow,  and 
flocks  feed,  and  hamlets  nestle  : 

And  over  all,  and  with  all,  always  the  free  air  and 
the  wide  view. 

Ah,  Walt,  Walt,  poet  of  Nature,  comrade  of  free 

men, 

Other  poets  have  been  Olympian, 
But  you  are  Olympus  itself. 

MARCH  28,  1892. 


36  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

T  NCARNATE  voice  of  English  May, 
1     The  gentlest  of  the  sons  of  song; — 
As  some  soft  brook  to  me,  alway, 
Thou  art,  O  voice  of  English  May. 
'Mid  rural  scenes,  in  limpid  play, 

I  love  with  thee  to  float  along- 
Incarnate  voice  of  English  May, 

And  gentlest  of  the  sons  of  song. 


AZTEC  OF  THE  AIR. 

AZTEC  of  the  air,  blithe  Bob  O'Link,- 
Quez-cat-a-lot/,  link- a- link- a- link  ! 
Thy  syllables,  so  sweet, 

I  think, 

Chime  with  the  tongue  of  Popocatapetl, 
And  the  clink-a-link-clink, 
Of  a  shaken  sheet 
Of  crinkling,  musical  metal. 


POETRY.  37 


POETRY. 

O  POETRY, 
Thou  art  to  me 
My  confidante, 
My  friend  ! 

When  all  the  tides  within 
Rise  overflowing, 
Thou  art  to  me 
Like  liberty. 

On  thine  infinity 
My  argosy 
Is  launched,  a  boat 
With  every  tide. 

But  some  will  sink, 
And  some — who  knows  ! — 
O  Poetry,  thou  art  to  me 
As  destiny  ! 


38  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


B 


THE  DAY-BIRTH. 
EAUTIFUL  ! 


Beautiful  ! 

Far  away 

The  Sun  leaps  up  with  his  baby,  Day, — 
A  royal  father,  and  proud,  is  he, 
His  visage  gleams  with  fatherly  glee; 
The  wood-birds  sing  and  the  roosters  cheer; 
The  green  leaves  glitter — up  starts  the  deer  ! 
All  nature  rings  with  the  glad  refrain: 
"  Behold  ! — the  world  is  new  again." 


THE  WHITE  SWAN  OF  WINTER. 

THE  white  swan  of  winter  is  plucking  her  breast; 
With  down-fluffs  the  hill  rocks  are  padded 

and  pressed; 

The  cold  winds  are  blowing, 
The  white  feathers  strowing; 
The  white  swan  of  winter  is  making  her  nest. 


In  all  the  universe  but  one  great  fact  I  see: — 
Mystery. 


A   WILD  TIGER-LILY.  39 


A  WILD  TIGER-LILY. 

A   LURID  Tiger-lily,  flower  of  flame, 
With  purple  blackness  lurking  in  thy  leopard 

spots, 

And  red-coal-ashed-with-gold-dust  anther  tips, — 
Thou  mindest  me — I  know  not  hardly  why — 

Of  one  dear  name, 

And  one  dark  cheek, 
Alike  to  thee  in  lovely  arrogance  of  tint. 

Yet  difference  I  spy 

In  this,  O  fair  flame-lily, 

All  thy  glories  glint 

Within  the  lonely  wood, 

Or  hillside  solitude, 
Where  some  rare  lover  of  the  wilderness  may  roam 

Who  only  giveth  thee  caress, 

Who  only  thee  may  know; 

While  she  would  glow 
Where  crowded-close  humanity 
Like  over-ripe,  packed  peaches  rots, 

And  woman  sips 
The  false,  thin,  flattering  foam 
From  empty  hearts  upwhirled. 

But  still,  when  deeper  cause  for  this  I  seek, 
This  line  of  likeness  which  I  needs  must  guess, 
I  find  in  these  things  still  you  are  the  same  : 
An  equal,  rich  luxuriance  of  life  in  both,  I  see, 
And  careless  blazing  of  bold  beauty  on  the  world. 


40  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


I  LOVE  MY  LOVE  IN  THE  MORNING. 

SWEETHEART,  lie  still  upon  my  breast, 
With  love-red  lips  to  mine  impressed, 
And  satin  limbs  that  twine  with  mine, 
Like  clinging  tendrils  of  a  vine. 

O,  love,  the  morning  'gins  to  peep, 
The  rainbow-robed  cataracts  leap, 
A  spotted  fawn  stands  in  the  glade, 
The  dew-drop  diamonds  gem  each  blade. 

Sweet  love,  I  feel  your  gentle  heart 
Throb  where  the  sphered  bosoms  part; 
My  necklace  rare,  your  warm  white  arms, 
My  coverlet,  disheveled  charms. 

The  whoop-crane's  clangor  wakes  the  fens, 
Thrush  voices  pulse  in  echoing  glens, 
On  wave-wet  sands  the  sea  birds  meet, 
Shy  violets  hide  'neath  clover  sweet. 

Ah  man  is  man,  and  maid  is  maid, 
Sweet  echoes,  by  each  other  swayed; — 
Soft  eyes  will  smile,  red  lips  will  cling, 
Till  Death  his  last  scythe  stroke  shall  swing. 

The  wild-fowl  wedge  through  Northern  skies, 
In  Indian  glades  the  tiger  sighs, 
The  siroc  whirls  the  desert  sands — 
Love  touches  all,  all  climes,  all  lands. 


THE  WHOOP-CRANE'S  CLANGOR,    41 


THE  WHOOP-CRANE'S  CLANGOR. 

ALONG  the  lone  Floridian  fens, 
Wild  scrub-wreathed  sands  and    hammock 
Edens, 

Croaks  the  importunate,  clanging  cry, 
From  out  the  painted  sunset  sky, 
Of  whoop-cranes,  as  they  roost-ward  fly. 

So  when  the  level  fire-lance  ray, 

The  first  swift  glance  of  hot-browed  Day, 

Adown  the  moss-hung  forest  hall 

Of  bannered  pines,  plume-tipped  and  tall, 

About  whose  roots  the  saw-palms  sprawl, 

Illumes  the  smoke-like  vapor,  blue, 
Upsteaming  all  the  lilies  through, 
And  glancing  o'er  the  waters,  far, 
Proclaims  Apollo's  coming  car, 
And  warns  all  sleepers  wake  to  war — 

'Tis  then  that  harsh  and  yearning  sound, 
Re-echoes  to  the  morning's  bound, 
Clangs  through  the  solemn  cypress  cave, 
Warns  the  great  owl  his  breath  to  save, 
And  shakes  the  bulrush  o'er  the  wave; 

As  'long  the  still  and  steaming  pool, 
Clouded  with  shadows,  broad  and  cool, 
These  great  birds  fan  impetuous  wing; 
While  'round  them  echoes  fiercely  ring, 
And  startled  mock-birds  cease  to  sing. 


42  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Prone  'mong  the  lilies  'long  the  shore, 
The  'gator  stops  his  blubbering  roar, 
And  sets  his  still,  reptilian  eye 
Upon  these  corsairs,  as  they  fly, 
Then  heaves  his  vast,  resounding  sigh. 

And  yonder,  where  the  hot  rays  fall, 
A  file  of  coolers,  great  and  small, 
Emboss  the  twisted  pitch-knot  log, 
(Outjutting  from  the  reedy  bog), 
Their  black  necks  stretching,  all  agog. 

Above,  against  a  sapphire  sky, 
The  osprey  wheels  his  spirals,  high  ; 
His  clear  eye  drinking  all  the  sight, 
His  long  wings  glancing  in  the  light, 
His  silvern  belly  flashing  white. 

Below,  beneath  the  bay  tree's  shade, 

The  moccasin  his  length  has  laid 

Of  mottled  char  and  muddy  ash, 

Still  as  the  latent  lightning  flash — 

They  come  !— and  o'er  him  waters  plash  ! 

The  small-fry  note  their  coming,  too, 
And  swiftly  fin  them  out  of  view; 
With  startled  croak  the  pied  frogs  leap, 
The  hidden  lizard's  bright  eyes  peep, 
The  newts  among  the  mosses  creep. 
*  *  *  *  # 

The  wide  swamp  lies  at  sultry  noon 
Beneath  the  brazen  sun  a-svvoon; 
All  still,  save  yonder  tall-necked  crane, 
Stalking  with  stately,  watchful  mien 
Athwart  the  lily-burdened  plain. 


THE  MOCK- BIRD.  43 

Pacing  his  stealthy,  measured  way, 

In  ashen  plumage,  dim  and  gray, 

'Mid  flowers,  weeds  and  maid-cane  grass; 

Ghost-like  he  seems  to  fade  and  pass 

From  out  the  field  of  eye  and  glass. 


Thou  art  my  pride,  fierce  royal  bird, 
No  sound  in  Nature  hath  so  stirred 
The  wild,  free  echoes  in  my  breast, 
As  thy  weird  trumpeting's  unrest, 
A  savage  longing,  sweet  exprest. 


THE  MOCK-BIRD. 

ABOVE  the  white  magnolia  bloom 
The  mock-bird  trills  and  sings 
A  woven  note  of  lightsome  'lume, 
That  lights  the  cypress-cavern's  gloom 
And  through  the  palm  top  rings. 

The  morning  sun  is  in  his  eye, 

His  breast  stands  to  the  light; 
All  morrow  cares  he  doth  defy, 
Hope  helps  him  perch  above  them  high, 

Beyond  them  take  his  flight. 

Now,  suddenly,  I  see  him  rise, 

Cresting  a  wave  of  song; 
Then  swiftly  falling,  far  he  flies, 
With  white-barred  wings  and  love-bright  eyes, 

The  hammock's  edge  along. 


44  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

A  gift  hath  to  his  lady  borne 

In  their  bright  sylvan  room, 
A  nest,  'mid  orange  leaf  and  thorn 
(All  open  to  the  Orient  morn) 
And  citrus  bridal  bloom. 

I  hear  their  twitterings  sweet  and  low 

Behind  the  emerald  screen; 
I  hear  a  flower  of  music  grow 
That  dims  those  bells  and  buds  of  snow 
With  all  their  scent  and  sheen. 

Sweet  solace  of  the  Southern  home, 

The  bird  I  love  the  best; 
Within  thy  brain  some  mirthful  gnome 
Sure  bids  thee  brew  this  mocking  foam 

Poured  sparkling  from  thy  breast. 


WOMEN  POETS. 

f~\  WOMAN  !     Poem  alive,  to  me  ; 

\^J     I  wonder  not  you  are  unversed  in  verserie- 

Can  a  poem  itself  make  poetry? 


THE  HOSPITAL  AT  NIGHT.         45 


THE  HOSPITAL  AT  NIGHT. 

Roosevelt,  Midnight,  April  8th,  1889. 

1SIT  within  the  long  dim  ward  at  night; 
Around  me  silent  beds  or  snores  or  groans, — 
Ah  !     List  that  prayer  with  anguish  in  its  tones: 
"  O  God,  God,  God  !    How  soon  will  it  be  light !  " 
"  Kape  sthill !    An*  let  us  shlape.     Oi  think  yees 

moight ! " — 

A  boy  asleep,  who  smiles,  (with  broken  bones) 
Dreaming  of  mother  or  some  playground  sight. 
Without,  thick  darkness  and  a  wind  that  moans. 

A  rattling  breath,  a  gasp,  a  still,  white  stare, 
A  nurse's  jest:  "Discharged— tie  up  the  jaw, 

A  label  on  the  wrist  to  save  mistakes," 
The  tramp  of  dead-house  men  of  heedless  air, 
Two  lines  of  lifted  faces  full  of  awe — 
A  sickened  sot,  that  cot  to-morrow  shakes. 


L 


Life  is  an  agreement  of  contradictions. 


46  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


THE  GODS  ARE  DEAD. 

THE  gods  are  dead,  and  only  shrines  remain  ; 
The  gods  are  dead,  but  still  the  Christs  are 

slain  ; 

The  gods  are  dead,  but  priests  yet  work  their  will  ; 
The  gods  are  dead,  but  men  must  worship  still. 

The  gods  are  dead,  but  Mystery  is  yet, 
And  fears  and  tears  and  drops  of  bitter  sweat, 
And  these  begot  and  these  have  slain  the  gods, 
And  these  upheld  and  these  shall  break  the  rods. 

The  gods  we  made  to  help  us  in  our  need, 
And  gave  them  crowns  and  in  their  lips  a  creed, 
But  Pain  crushed  on  and  they  helped  not  at  all, 
And  so  we  turned  and  smiled  to  see  them  fall. 

We  in  our  minds  make  all  things  that  we  know 
Of  gods  above  or  god -like  powers  below  : 
Kings,  tyrants,  lawyers,  warrior  or  priest, 
The  millions  serving  and  the  few  at  feast. 

Withhold  our  faith  and  all  these  things  shall  fall ; 
Like  as  the  gods  to  whom  our  faith  was  all  ; 
Make  change  within  and  outward  there  shall  be 
Fair  field,  free  growth,  and  life  in  all  things  free. 


CLEOPA  TRA.  47 


CLEOPATRA. 

DECLINING  in  her  chamber  sat 
1\     Egypt's  great  queen, 
Below,  on  skin-of-tiger  mat, 

There  might  be  seen 
A  fair  slave,  prone,  to  stool  her  feet. 

Her  carven  couch  was  rich  with  gold, 

And  flashing  gems 
Were  bound  upon  her  forehead  bold 

And  on  the  hems 
Of  all  her  royal  robes  replete. 

The  walls  were  wonderful  about 

With  pictured  things  : 
Isis,  Osiris,  battle  rout 

And  pride  of  Kings — 
Ptolomy,  Menes,  Pharoah. 

Out  thro'  the  open  window,  far, 

Her  fierce  eyes  swept 
The  fertile  land,  thoughtful  of  war  ; 

While  shimmering  slept 
The  corn  beneath  the  noon-tide  glow. 

The  hand  that  pressed  her  satin  flank 

Was  clenching  tight, 
And  thro'  pale  lips  that  twitched  and  shrank, 

A  gleam  of  white 
Showed  tigress  teeth  set  hard  at  Fate. 


48  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

"  What ! — shall  I  be  a  thing  of  scorn 

At  Caesar's  show, 
I,  at  whose  feet,  with  sighs  forlorn, 

Not  long  ago, 
Rome's  proudest  knelt  to  supplicate  ? 

"  By  Isis  ! — no  ! — if  steel  can  stab 

Or  poison  slay, 
No  tattling  mob  my  shame  shall  blab 

Thro'  Rome  that  day  ! 
For  I  have  reigned  .  .  .  and  now  .  .  .  can  die. 

"What  say'st  thou  there  ! — a  peasant  brings 

A  crate  of  fruit  ? 
'Tis  well — bring  here.     (Now  lord  of  kings 

Thy  mob  may  hoot, 
With  this  friend's  help  I  thee  defy.) 

"  My  ladies,  leave  me  .  .  .  thou  too  .  .  .  all, 

For  I  would  sleep. 
(Sooth  a  heavy  sleep  methinks  'twill  fall — 

Ah,  I  could  weep  ! 
But  royal  pride  hath  heart  of  stone.) 

"  Quick  now  !  .  .  .  kind  goddess,  give  me  strength! 

Up  with  the  lid  !— 
Uprears  that  green  and  glittering  length, 

Out  it  has  slid — 

0  curse  my  fear!  .  .  here!  .  .  strike!  .  .  'tis  done. 

"  Bless  thee,  dear  snake  !     Ah,  I  love  thee  ! 

That  little  bite 
Makes  free.     Now  Rome,  what  shall  me  dree  ? 

In  thy  despite 

1  'scape  ;  thou  canst  not  me  demean. 


STORM-HEART.  49 

"A  deadly  langour  clogs  each  vein, 

My  limbs  grow  numb  ; 
Now  shall  I  sleep  .  .  .  Anthony  !  .  .  .  no  pain  .  .  . 

Ho  !  Roman  scum  ! 
Laugh  at  yourselves  .  .  I  die  .  .  a  .  .  queen." 


STORM-HEART. 

TO  live  in  the  quick  life  of  the  wind  ! — ah  ! 
Knowest  thou  not  the  joy  of  the  breath  of  life 
In  the  nostrils  of  the  swift  man,  air  cleaving; 
In  the  deep  lungs  of  the  galloping  horse, 
Rushing  impetuously  onward,  neighing, 
Spurning  the  resounding  earth  with  beating  hoofs  ? 

Canst  thou  not  exult,  with  me,  with  the  mad  waves, 

Leaping,  flashing,  foaming,  upflinging  spray; 

With  the  boom  of  the  surf  upon  the  shore; 

The  wrack  of  clouds  in  the  sky,  storm-beaten; 

The  flapping  of  the  sea-bird  in  the  gale; 

And  the  long  wail  of  the  winter  wind 

Thro'  the  wild  throats  of  the  darkened  pines  ? 

To  live  in  the  wind,  to  move,  to  sway  with  it, 
Rising  and  falling  with  its  noble  rhythms, 
Surges  and  lulls  of  the  great  gales — Ah  me  ! 
Ever  since  I  was  a  boy  I  have  felt  thus. 
I  have  loved  the  storm,  and  the  speed  of  winds, 
The  run  of  waves,  and  the  black  heart  of  tempests. 


50  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

O  wings  of  the  great  winds,  whirling,  whistling, 
O  serpents  of  flame, 
O  voices  of  terror, 

O  breaths  of  tempest, 

Storm-hearts,  I  love  you  ! — 
As  the  dark  eagles  of  the  mountains, 
As  the  fierce,  wild  falcons  of  the  desert, 
As  the  sea-gulls  flashing  over  the  breakers, 
As  the  stormy  petrels  of  the  black  seas. 


To  be  God-shot  by  the  long  lightnings, 
In  the  great  forest,  by  the  still,  stern  rocks, 
With  the  thunder  muttering  and  exulting, 
With  the  wind  sobbing  and  the  rain  weeping, 
The  pall  of  a  black  cloud  overhanging, 
And  the  torn  leaves  driftihg  over,  alone — 
Would  not  that  be  a  beautiful  death  to  die  ! 


BY  MOUTHS  OF  SEA  WORMS 
QUAINTLY  CARVEN. 


A 


LITTLE  sea  shell 
From  the  beach, 
By  mouths  of  sea  worms  quaintly  carven, 
Whispered  me  a  thing  to  tell : 

"  Loving  is  living  !  " 
Whispered  well, 

Whispered  me,  and  slipt  and  fell 
Into  water,  out  of  reach. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  TURTLE.        51 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  TURTLE. 

I  AM  a  dove, 
The  bird  of  Love, 
And  the  woodlands  ring 
When  I  sing  ; 
I  do  not  mourn, 

I  rejoice, 

When  the  little  ones  are  born 
I  lift  my  voice  : 

Coo-oo!  coo-oo!  coo-oo! 
For  the  mate  I  love  and  woo, 
For  the  nestlings,  two, 
Coo-oo! 

And  I  croon 

At  sultry  noon, 
In  the  coolness  and  the  shade 
Of  the  glade— 

0  do  not  say  I  mourn, 
Or  am  sad, 

1  have  life  and  love  and  corn, 
I  am  glad. 

Coo-oo!  coo-oo!  coo-oo! 
Dear  mate,  fond  and  true, 
I  have  life  and  I  have  you — 
Coo-oo! 


52  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


A  LITTLE  RAMBLING  RILL. 


O 


MAIDEN  fair 

In  hair 

And  face  and  form — 

Ah,  how  the  blushing  warm 

Blood 

Makes  flushing  flood 

Thro'  all  the  sweet  lip-pasture  of  her  cheek  !- 
O  hear  me  speak  ! 

Hear  me  declare 

Confession,  bare, 

Of  all  my  fondness  true 

For  you, 
My  azure  sky's  white  dove, 

My  love, 

My  goddess  bright 
As  light. 

Hear  me  proclaim, 

Aflame, 

My  ardency 

For  thee. 

That  little  fleck 

Of  curling  hair,  behind,  upon  your  neck, 

Entangleth  me — 
Make  me  not  free  ! 

O  maiden  sweet, 
Discreet, 


A  LITTLE  RAMBLING  RILL.          53 

Why  should  so  long  the  blisses 
Of  warm  kisses 

Abide, 
And  hide, 

Where  your  two  lips,  sweet, 
Meet? 

O  maiden  pure, 

Demure, 
Why  should  your  soft  bright  eye's 

Surprise 
Be  veiled  back — 

Alack  !— 

By  kissing  of  fringed  lids,  dainty,  down 
Thrown  ? 

O  maiden  coy  ! — 

Ah,  joy  ! — 
Now  little  smiles, 

At  whiles, 
Begin  to  creep, 

Peep, 

And  show  thro'  rippling  lips  your  teeth 
Beneath. 

Ah,  now  your  tender  eyes 

In  love  arise  ; 

And  softly  speak 

That  what  I  seek 

You  gladly  give. — 

O  darling  !  now  I  live. — 

My  sweet  one,  come 

Home ! 


54  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Your  timid,  tender  kiss 

Is  bliss  ; 
Like  new  rain  on  the  earth 

In  time  of  dearth  ; 
Your  clinging  half-embrace 

Makes  race 

Thro'  every  vein 

Sweet  sense  of  gain. 

Upon  my  cheek  your  breath 

In  silence  saith 

A  sweeter  thing 

Than  sirens  sing, 

When  like  winds  whirling, 

Wandering, 

They  flee 

With  moonlit  feet  along  the  sea. 

Your  little  hand's 
Soft  nestling  stands 
My  heart  still  with  full  pleasure 

No  measure 
Have  I  for  my  joy, 

Without  alloy. 

I  cannot  speak  for  peace, 

So  cease. 


NO  FLAG.  55 


NO  FLAG. 

NAY,  I  am  no  patriot ;  not  for  me 
This  prejudice,  so  proud,  of  one's  own  country, 
Always  right,  chiefest  cause  of  enmity 

Atween  the  nations.     Were  it  not  for  this, 
All  peoples  had  a  million  years,  I  wis, 
Ago,  exchanged  of  brotherhood  the  kiss  ! 

And,  were  it  not  for  this,  how  great  a  flood 
Had  never  flowed  of  warmest,  reddest  blood, 
From  hearts  of  murdered  heroes,  brave  and  good  ! 

How  many  women  hearts  unbroke  had  been, 
Had  "  patriots  "  not  forgotten  they  were  men, 
And  murdered  that  their  land  might  "glory  "  win  ! 

O  folly,  this,  to  die  to  wear  a  tag  ! 

O  crime,  to  kill  because  one's  country's  flag 

Is  different  from  some  other  piebald  rag  ! 

For  noble  hearts  find  one  land  scant  of  room, 
All  men  their  brothers,  and  the  world  their  home, 
From  highest  mountain  peak  to  ocean  foam. 

Their  love  holds  all,  their  boast  is  every  clime, 
Their  sympathy  with  every  race  in  every  time, 
All  patriot  songs  with  equal  voice  they  chime. 


56  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

They  lift  no  flag,  and  sound  no  party  cry, 
And  leave  to  fools  to  run  in  herds  to  die, 
Insane  at  hearing  :  "  Foreign  foes  are  nigh  !  " 

For  them  there  are  no  foreigners  at  all, 
No  prejudice  of  birth,  no  Chinese  wall, 
The  Briton  but  the  fellow  of  the  Gaul. 

They  hold  all  roads  are  open,  earth  and  sea, 

No  rightful  duty,  tax,  or  passport  fee, 

All  travelers  welcome,  and  all  commerce  free. 

They  would  all  bounds  were  blotted,  bars  were  down 
All  nation-lines  and  States  were  overthrown, 
Naught  left  but  honest  neighborhoods  alone  ; 

For  honest  men  no  laws,  no  government, 
No  interference,  howsoe'er  well-meant, 
Each  man's  life,  fortune,  as  he  pleases  spent. 

O  when  shall  men  be  tall  enough  to  see 
That  pride  of  country  makes  for  slavery, 
That  he  alone  who  has  no  flag  is  free  ! 

The  man  without  a  country  'habits  all  ; 

Without  a  flag  all  banners  drape  his  wall ; 

His  patriot  heart  hears  but  the  wide  world's  call. 


\  Love  others  because  you  love  yourself. 


SONNET  TO  A   WHITE  LADY.        57 


SONNET  TO  A  WHITE  LADY. 

OSAD  White  Lady  of  my  soul,  I  say, 
Listening  at  memory  as  one  might  the  spell 
Breathing  mysterious  from  some  twined  shell, 
Wherefore  art  thou  so  far  from  me  astray  ? — 
So  far,  and  yet  so  close  to  me  alway 
That  my  own  heart  seems  but  thy  house,  to  dwell 
Awaiting  thee,  and  all  my  soul  thy  well 
For  thee  to  drink — so  strange  ! — ah,  well-a-day  ! 

I  mind  me  now  of  some  whose  souls  have  bent 
Like  bows,  full  aimed  upon  some  great  event ; 
And  so  have  broken,  missing  what  they  meant ; 
Disarmed,  and  yet  with  arrows  all  unspent. — 
And  some  who,  meeting  Love  without  dissent 
For  once,  have  kissed  and  kissing  died  in  full  con 
tent. 


58  IVIND-HARP  SONGS. 


DESERT  VOICES. 

O  DESERT  voices,  why  tempt  my  soul? 
For  what  have  I  of  kin  with  thee  ? — 
With  deadly  sun  and  the  drifting  sand, 
The  cactus-thorn  and  the  blasted  tree  ? 

Ye  desert  voices,  why  tempt  ye  me  ? 

For  aye  and  ever  I  hear  ye  call  : 
"O  come,  where  the  wastes  are  wild  and  wide, 

And  the  wide,  wild  winds  are  over  all  !  " 

O  desert  voices  !     O  Great  Sublime  ! — 
My  soul  is  moved  by  thy  weird  appeal ; 

Force  unknowable,  unmasked  Life, 
And  the  Seeds  of  All  Things  in  thee  I  feel. 


The  heated  sand  and  the  pallid  snow, 
The  sullen  mountains,  bare  and  tall, 

The  fierce  and  beautiful,  bitter  sea, 

And  the  wild,  wide  winds  that  are  breath  of  all. 


INGLE-LOW.  59 


AUTUMN. 

THE  season,  like  a  courtesan, 
Hides  her  age  with  paint  and  gems, 
Dyes  her  locks  with  gold. 
Pleasing  hard  while  please  she  can  : — 
Lovers  hasten  ! — no  delay  ! 
She  is  smiling,  warm  as  May, 
Quickly  passeth  charm  and  sway, 
Glare  and  glory  fade  to  gray, 
Naught  at  last  but  leafless  stems, 
And  the  end  is  cold. 


INGLE-LOW. 

BLESS  you  fire,  born  of  burned  wood  ! — 
For  you  bless  me  and  do  me  good  ; — 
Antic  and  lightsome  and  kindly  and  warm, 
You  make  in  merry  when  out  is  storm  ; 
And  no  man  finds  him  a  blither  friend 
Than  his  ingle-low,  at  the  hard  day's  end. 


The  key  of  pleasure  —appreciation. 


60  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


WILD  ROSES  AND  MAIDEN  HAIR. 

THAT  she  was  warm  I  was  aware, 
With  all  sweet  virtues  in  her  air, 
(  Wild  roses  and  maiden  hair. ) 

Night  has  morning  and  night  has  noon  ; 
Woman's  face  is  a  hidden  rune 
(In  a  hammock,  beneath  the  moon.} 

So  it  were  hidden  she  did  not  care  ; 

Her  dress  was  white,  in  the  moonlight,  there. 

(  Wild  roses  and  maiden  hair. ) 

Her  feet  were  dainty  in  slippered  shoon, 
The  trellis-vine  had  a  fragrant  swoon. 
(In  a  hammock^  beneath  the  moon.) 

The  little  hands  were  soft  and  bare, 

I  might  have  touched  them,  but  did  not  dare. 

(  Wild  roses  and  maiden  hair. ) 

The  end  was  coming  and  came  too  soon  ! — 
Words  unspoken,  and  never  a  boon  ! 
(In  a  hammock,  beneath  the  moon.) 


NA  TURE  AND  I  ARE  GLAD.         61 


NATURE  AND  !  ARE  GLAD. 

THE  days  are  leaden  and  purple  in  stain, 
And  laced  with  bars  of  a  sweet,  dark  rain, 
And  the  brows  of  men  are  heavy  with  pain, 
But  Nature  and  I  are  glad. 

The  fields  are  sketched  and  etched  in  gray, 
With  charcoal  shadows  of  night-in-day — 
O  why  do  men  hate  such  ? — tell  me,  pray  ! 
For  Nature  and  I  are  glad. 

These  warm,  wet  days  are  akin  with  the  South, 
And  they  kiss  close  down,  like  a  wet,  warm  mouth. 
You  may  pray,  if  you  will,  for  the  days  of  drouth, 
But  Nature  and  I  are  glad. 

They  are  filled,  a-thrill  with  the  thunder-soul, 
The  pen  of  the  lightning  has  writ  their  scroll, 
And  brows  may  furrow,  and  lips  condole, 
But  Nature  and  I  are  glad. 

For  the  days  are  latticed  with  sweet,  dark  rain, 
They  are  gray  and  purple  and  leaden  in  stain  ; 
Dull  hearts  get  dolor,  dull  lungs  complain, 
But  Nature  and  I  are  glad. 


62  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


REVERIE. 

I  SAT  me  down  within  a  beauteous  wood, 
All  in  a  strangely  sweet  and  dreamy  mood, 
My  thoughts,  like  all  those  bright  leaves,  strewed. 

I  drank  the  freshness  of  the  amber  air, 

The  glowing  beauty  of  those  colors  rare, 

And  thought  of  one  whose  face  was  dark,  yet  fair. 

'Twas  then  a  nymph-like  form  beside  rne  stood — 

Is  it  a  sylvan  spirit  of  the  wood  ? 

Or  is  the  wine  of  autumn  in  my  blood  ? 

The  ripeness  of  the  time  my  soul  receives, 
An  Oriental  web  the  sunshine  weaves, 
Rich-hued,  and  patterned  by  the  crimson  leaves. 

A  gentle  presence  shares  my  pleasure  now, 
The  glory  of  the  day  gleams  on  another's  brow, 
Our  thoughts  are  far  too  deep  for  words'  light  flow. 

Ask  not,  O  friends,  that  I  should  tell  you  more  ; 
There  are  sweet  secrets  in  the  heart's  deep  core, 
Close  guarded  as  the  mine's  rich  ore. 


CHBRR  Y  BL OSSOMS.  63 


CHERRY  BLOSSOMS. 

CHERRY  blossoms  are  white  and  sweet, 
As  a  white  cloud  from  the  sky  come  down, 
White  as  fair  foam  from  the  sea  upthrown, 
For  the  eye's  joy  meet. 

Cherry  blossoms  are  white  and  sweet, 
A  dark-red  the  robin's  breast  among, 
And  full  of  red  love  the  song  he  sung — 
My  love  sings  discreet ! 

Cherry  blossoms  are  white  and  sweet ; 
The  far,  fair  sky  shines  blue  between, 
And  the  sharp,  bright  air  seems  washed  out  clean- 
Summer  whispereth  ! 

Cherry  blossoms  are  white  and  sweet, 
Thunder  and  sun  and  ropes  of  rain, 
Anger  and  smiles  and  kisses  of  pain, 
Petals  blown  with  a  breath. 


There  is  luck  in  love  where  the  woman  woos. 


64  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


HAIL,  COMRADE  ! 

WRITTEN  FOR    EVALD    HAMMAR's    FORTIETH 
BIRTHDAY,  OCT.  3RD,   1892. 

HAIL,  comrade,  whom  my  thought  endears, 
Your  day  of  birth,  of  forty  years, 
Deserves  a  bit  of  rhyme  ! 

For  we  were  chums,  in  heart  and  thought, 
Among  that  little  band  who  sought 
The  Southern  clime 

To  hold  a  larger  life  and  free, 
In  the  elect  society 
Of  thinkers  great. 

Who  came  to  browse  on  Eden  food 
And  lead  a  life  of  brotherhood — 
Millenial  state. 

Alas,  we  only  found  it  true 
That  names  oft  change,  but  seldom  do 
The  hearts  of  men  ; 

The  bigot  is  the  bigot,  still, 
Whatever  words  his  mouth  may  fill, 
Of  generous  ken  ; 

The  pard  doth  not  evict  his  spot, 
Nor  blanch  his  hide  the  Hottentot, 
Because  his  name 


HAIL,  COMRADE!  65 

Is  changed  from  this  to  something  else, 
Or  some  brave  tag  the  public  tells 
His  whitened  fame. 

And  thus  we  found  the  fact  to  be, 
A  "  Liberal  "  might  be  aught  but  free, 
And  for  "  Reform," 

It  might  be  but  another  creed, 
To  limit  nature,  cripple  deed, 
And  mind  deform. 

***** 

You  built  your  home,  and  I  built  mine, 
From  logs  of  hewn  and  peeled  pine 
And  cleared  the  land 

Of  saw-palm,  pine,  and  black-jack  oak 
And  planted  what  we  might  to  cloak 
The  naked  sand. 

Remember  you  those  long-drawn  days 
Of  flashing  sun  and  azure  haze 
And  balmy  air, 

When  we  would  toil  with  plow  and  hoe 
To  coax  the  lazy  trees  to  grow, 
The  crops  to  bear  ? 

And  those  gay  nights  when  all  would  meet 
To  kick  out  care  with  dancing  feet 
And  rustic  mirth  ? 

Or  when,  within  my  home,  you'd  sing 
And  make  the  little  fiddle  ring 
Beside  the  hearth  ? 


66  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Those  days  were  hard  ones  for  us  all, 
And  yet  I  love  them  to  recall, 
For  there  was  much 

That  gave  us  pleasure  in  them,  too, 
And  every  thought  and  purpose  true 
Found  us  in  touch. 

Our  thoughts  were  high,  our  speech  was  great, 
With  noble  hopes  we  were  elate, 
And  every  plan 

To  make  life  freer,  wiser,  strong, 
Was  in  our  ears  as  some  sweet  song 
Of  help  to  man. 

You  were  a  teacher  to  me,  there  ; 
You  opened  doors  to  fresher  air 
And  gave  me  food 

To  ease  my  hunger  for  the  best, 
And  that  of  which  I  was  in  quest 
You  showed  was  good. 

Among  that  small,  Utopian  band 
You  were  my  chiefest,  chosen  friend, 
And  when  you  left 

It  seemed  our  music  left  with  you  ; 
My  fiddle  strings  all  snapt  in  two, 
Of  you  bereft. 

*  *  *  *  # 

Well,  friend,  those  times  are  past  and^gone, 
And  you  the  fortieth  mile-stone 
Are  reaching,  fast, 


"LIBERTY."  67 

Upon  life's  journey  to  that  strange, 
Unravelled  mystery  of  change 
Of  all  the  last. 

I  wish  you  birthdays,  many  more  ! 
Of  all  good  things  I  wish  you  store ! — 
And,  ere  you  die, 

May  your  glad  eyes  perceive,  fulfilled, 
The  freedom  they  have  wished  and  willed — 
And  so — good-bye  ! 


"LIBERTY  ENLIGHTENING  THE 
WORLD." 

HARD  by  the  ferry's  rail  I  stood,  one  night, 
And  saw  the  beacon  gleam  across  the  bay, 
Of  that  fair  statue  bravely  raised  to  say  : — 
O  Brain  and  Hand  be  Free  ! — in  words  of  light ; 
But  as  I  looked,  no  statue  met  my  sight, 
Only  a  shapeless  shade  that  seemed  to  stay 
Atween  the  glorious  torch-star,  sweet  as  day, 
And  where  the  pedestal  shone  palely  white. 

A  symbol  this,  it  seemed  to  me  ;  forsooth 

The  world  lies  wan  beneath  high  Freedom's  flame, 

And,  dazzled,  knows  not  yet  her  form,  nor  grace  ; 

Her  torch  to  men  is  but  a  torch  in  truth, 

Few  read  as  yet  her  lines  of  healing  fame — 

Too  dark  !     Too  soon  ! — the  morrow  sees  her  face. 


68  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


MY  WOMEN. 

BEHOLD  my  women,  grave  and  sweet, 
With  eyes  of  depth,  and  stately  feet. 

With  brows  of  thought,  and  magnet  hand, 
And  tact  and  heart  to  understand  ; 

Who  hear  and  see,  and  quickly  feel, 
What  tone  and  glance  alone  reveal. 

Who,  hand  in  hand,  keep  step  and  stride, 
With  tender  courage,  at  my  side. 

Who  fit  my  mood,  as  fits  the  sea 
Into  a  noontide  reverie. 

Who  calm  my  soul,  as  does  the  sky 
When  on  the  sward  I  musing  lie. 

Who  give  me  rest,  as  Mother  Earth 
When  on  her  breast  I  make  my  berth. 

Whose  woman's  pride  and  kindling  eye 
Inspire  me  like  a  prophecy. 

Whose  courage  high,  and  faith  elate, 
Bend  all  my  aims  to  nobler  fate. 

Who  stir  and  thrill  like  music,  rare, 
And  cleanse  and  free  like  ocean  air. 


A  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.         69 

Who  bid  me  trust  them,  have  no  fear, 
With  lips  of  truth  and  eyes  sincere. 

I  know  my  women,  grave  and  sweet, 
And  they  know  me,  where'er  we  meet. 


A  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 

THE  gray  hills  circle  on  the  bourne  of  sight, 
And  like  a  picture  on  a  shell  are  drawn 
The  eastward  farm  and  trees  upon  the  light : 
Across  the  pallid,  drifting  fields  of  snow 
I  stride,  elate,  while  overhead  the  crow, 
Cut  on  their  clearness  like  a  cameo, 
Athwart  the  pearl-hued  skies  of  first,  faint  dawn, 
Flaps  like  a  flying  fragment  of  the  Night. 

Hold  we  but  hope  of  souls  untouched  of  tether, 
And  pace  in  step  with  Nature's  mood  alway, 

For  health  and  wit  and  happy  thought  and  love, 
No  matter  be  it  fair  or  falling  weather, 

Or  skies  be  black  or  skies  be  bright  above, 
The  morning  is  our  youth,  and  spring  of  day. 


70  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


A  FAIR  WOMAN'S  HAIR. 

P  EVVARE 

LJ     Of  the  spell  of  a  fair  woman's  hair ! 

Glinting  with  sun-gold. 

Floating  in  air, 

Softer  than  silk  of  the  Orient  loom, 

Brown,  auburn,  or  golden,  or  glossy  in  gloom  : 

Fragrant,  beautiful  snare ; 

Beware 

Of  the  charm  of  a  fair  woman's  hair. 

Beware ! 

The  bonds  of  the  heart  are  there ; 

Curling  so  prettily  over  the  brow — 

Oh  turn  your  eyes  from  its  magic  now ! 

Those  threads  are  the  strings  of  Cupid's  bow, 

His  arrows  dart  from  bright  orbs  below: 

Turn! 

Spurn  ! 

Or  your  heart  will  yearn, 

And  your  thoughts  will  burn — 

Ah  !  when  will  the  wise  man  learn 

To  beware 

Of  the  snare 

Of  a  fair  woman's  hair? 

Beware  ! 

Take  care ! 

A  lasso  of  Love  is  each  hair, 

Waving  and  crinkling  there, 


STORM-LESSON.  71 

Or  bright  and  straight 

With  the  beauty  of  Fate  ; 

Brittle  as  glass  yet  strong  as  steel, 

Entangling  hearts  for  woe  or  weal ; 

Drawing  a  man  to  the  gates  of  sin 

Or  hedging  him  in 

With  a  holy  veil, 

Against  which  Hell's  gates  cannot  prevail — 

O  hide  me  there  ! 

Safe  from  care, 

Wrapt  in  the  cloud  of  a  fair  woman's  hair, 

Beautiful,  beautiful  hair. 


STORM-LESSON. 


AGAINST  the  sombre  pines  the   white  storm 
whirls, 

Below  a  felted  sky,  wan-hued  as  death, 
While  all  the  woods  are  rimed  with  Winter's 

breath, 
The  trunks  ice-mailed;  sleet  cuts  ;  the  wild  wind 

hurls 
The  damp  and  clogging    flakes,    and    rhythmic 

sings, 
In  wailing  words  of  chanted  under-song, 

As  in  the  lee  the  wave-like  drift  it  flings, 
A  rune  of  things    unfathomed,    old   and   strange 
and  strong. 


72  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

ii. 

The  East  is  pale  as  pearl ;  faint  stripes  of  red, 
Athwart,  burn  clear  and  fine,  the  fields  are  white 
And  drawn  with  drifts  curl-lipped  like  shells  ;  the 

Night 
Hath  banished  Storm  ;   the  Winds,  wide-winged, 

are  fled, 

And  with  the  sun,  lo  ! — all  the  world  hath  gems 
And  fire  of  stabbing  sparks  and  jewels  a-cling 

To  crystal  twigs  and  spangled  sprays  and  stems — 
While  tinkling  on  the   crust  the   falling   ice-casts 
ring. 


O  Nature,  mother,  sweet  and  fierce  and  kind, 
Strange,  beautiful  or  passionate  or  grave, 
From  thee  are  all  the  things  that  slay  or  save, 

That  give  us  ease  or  dread,  that  loose  or  bind  ; 
And,  we,  of  thee  begotten,  have  the  germs 

And  rudiments  of  that  thy  largeness  hath. 
Thou  canst  no  more,  and  I  accept  thy  terms 

And   wage    with    thee    no    silly  war  of  whining 
wrath. 


Genius  is  intuition,  innate  force  and  the  passion 
ate  desire  to  do  a  perfect  thing. 


MY  WITCH  FLAMES.  73 


MY  WITCH  FLAMES. 

THE  witch,  Flame,  stept  on  a  kindling  stick, 
And  leapt  with  a  bound  to  the  apex,  quick, 
Scattering  abroad  her  blazing  hair, 
Waving  weird  arms,  wild,  red,  and  bare. 

Tossing  her  smoke-blue  mantle  o'er, 
With  a  crackling  laugh,  half-hiss,  half-roar, 
Licking  the  logs  with  her  lapping  tongue, 
Writhing,  worm-like,  the  knots  among. 

While  eerie  urchins  came  from  her  wame, 
Skipping  some  step  of  an  elfin  game, 
Doing  the  tricks  of  their  demon  dam, 
As  apes,  insane,  with  an  oriflamb. 

And  their  red  eyes  winked,  'mid  ashes  gray, 
As  they  turned  and  squirmed  and  vanished  away 
Stretching,  anon,  like  tip-tailed  snake, 
Lizard-like,  seeming  to  fall  and  break. 

So  I  sit  and  pore  at  the  eldritch  race 
And  their  flapping  fun  in  that  sooty  place, 
And  hold  my  toes  to  the  genial  heat, 
Or  nod  and  grin  at  a  witch-face,  sweet. 

But  it  sometimes  seems  that  they  stay  not  there, 
But  leap  and  climb  in  my  beard  and  hair, 
Bedaubing  my  nose  with  charcoal  grimes, 
Whirling  my  wits  in  mad-cap  rhymes. 


74  WIND-  HAR  P  SONGS. 


Ay,  I  love  ye  well,  ye  witch-flames,  gay, 
As  I  sit  at  mine  ingle  and  mind  your  play — 
May  ye  and  I  be  friends  for  long 
Ye  skip-jig  Muses  of  my  song. 


IN  A  CEMETERY.* 

I  SAT  among  the  earthed  and  speechless  dead, 
While  in  the  west  the  great  sun,  round  and  red, 
Sank  like  a  sign  behind  the  hazy  hills. 

My  thoughts  were  floated  far  in  solemn  trance, 
The  heights  of  life  and  death  stood  in  my  glance 
And  all  the  vale  that  intervening  fills. 

The  giggling  laugh  smote  faint  upon  my  ear 
Of  thoughtless  ones  who  jested  there,  anear, 
While  on  the  bourne  the  day's  life  burned   out 
clear. 

A  dry  wind,  lingering,  touched  upon  my  brow, 
And  seemed  to  whisper  :     "  Work  your  worth  out 

now, 
For  all  the  hope  of  man  you  see  below. 

"  'Tween  hills  of  dawn  and  dark  a  little  vale, 
A  little  day  before  the  light  shall  fail, 
And  then  oblivion,  soundless,  swift  and  pale." 

O  mystery  of  joy  and  all  held  dear  ! 
O  mystery  of  pain  and  death  and  fear ! 
O  mystery  of  all  we  may  not  know  ! 


*  Hillside  Cemetery,  Plainfield,  New  Jersey. 


LOVE  WAS  RED.  75 

And  yet  I  scarcely  long  to  have  it  less, 
I  love  the  music  of  its  awftilness, 
The  solemn  cadence  of  its  rhythmic  flow. 


f        It  is  right  (saith  Nature)  to  seek  perfection,  but 
wrong  to  attain  it. 


LOVE  WAS  RED. 

OLOVE  was  red,  and  Love  was  ripe. 
And  Love  shone  like  the  sun, 
And  my  brain  went  round  with  a  sweet  delight, 
As  I  sped  away  through  the  charmed  night 
With  the  maid,  my  lovtid  one. 

Her  eyes  shone  bright  till  the  stars  went  pale, 

Her  hair  was  silk-of-gold, 
Her  cheeks  were  hot  with  the  blushing  blood, 
Her  lips  were  full,  like  the  red  rose-bud, 

Her  voice  was  rich  and  bold. 

"  Come  !  love  of  mine,"  she  sweetly  said, 

"  And  bear  me  far  away 
Upon  your  steed  so  strong  and  fleet, 
Away  thro'  the  moonlight,  weird  and  sweet, 

Long  miles  ere  break  of  day  ! 

"  For  my  home  is  not  a  home  to  me, 

My  parents  are  cold  and  stern  ; 
My  soul  revolts  at  this  tyranny  ! 
O  take  me  hence,  for  I  would  be  free  ! 

With  love  for  you  I  burn  !  " 


76  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

My  mare  stood  under  the  linden  tree — 

Black  as  a  flashing  coal — 

And  she  pawed  the  ground  as  she  saw  us  come, 
Whinnering  low  a  glad  welcome, 

As  tho'  the  maid  were  her  foal. 

I  placed  my  love  on  a  pillion  soft, 

With  one  white  arm  she  clung — 
Her  warm  breath  played  athwart  my  cheek 
And  words  of  love  in  my  ear  did  speak — 

Ah  me  ! — our  hearts  were  young. 

Afar  we  fled  through  that  moony  night, 

And  landscapes  strange  and  still  ; 
And  the  hills  rose  up  and  the  hills  sank  down, 
As  we  galloped  on  past  waste  and  town, 
Till  midnight  clocks  did  peal. 

We  reined,  at  last,  in  a  forest  lone — 

My  cloak  was  wide  and  warm  ; 
Where  love  is  pure  and  love  is  real, 
Where  hearts  are  warm  and  hearts  are  leal, 

What  matters  a  bond,  or  form  ? 

Our  priest  was  Love  who  gave  the  ring — 

The  circle  of  joy  complete — 
By  Nature's  rites  our  souls  were  wed  ; 
And  the  stars  looked  down  on  our  sylvan  bed 

And  danced  with  twinkling  feet. 

Yea,  holier  far  than  prayer  of  priest 

Is  the  maiden's  kiss  of  love  ; 
And  the  faith  of  a  true  and  sincere  man 
Was  never  yet  helped  by  Statute's  plan 

Where  Liberty  smiled  above. 


IN  A  PRISM.  77 


HOMELESS. 

WHOSO  hath  home  hath  hope, 
A  wall  of  courage  at  his  back, 
A  coigne  of  vantage  for  his  feet, 
And  for  his  head  a  rest. 

Whoso  hath  home  hath  hope: 
The  beasts  upon  the  thousand  hills 
Have  all  and  one  a  cuddling  place, 
A  hole  or  nest  for  each. 


Whoso  home  hath  none  is  sadder  than  a  beast, 
As  poor  as  Christ,  and  lonelier  than  a  fox. 


IN  A  PRISM. 

WOULD  write  me  a  poem  to-night, 
Gemmed  with  beautiful  words; 
But  of  what, 
I  know  not; 
I  have  only  the  impulse  aright, 

The  passion  to  sing, 

Like  the  waves  and  the  birds; 

And  the  thought 

Is  not  clear, 
Nor  the  vision  to  the  seer, 


78  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

But  I  write 

As  one  might 

In  prophecy 

Unsought, 

And  I  think,  it  may  be, 
As  bards  of  minstrelsy 
Improvise. 

Arise, 
O  my  soul, 
Come  out  ! 

There  is  music  in  thy  brain 
Like  the  rain; 

Like  the  laugh 
And  the  sip 
Of  the  lip 
Of  the  wave 
On  the  sand. 
It  is  faint,  like  the  mist, 

And  it  turns 
Like  the  wind  that  we  list, 

And  it  burns 

Like  the  flush  of  the  flame  in  the  womb 
Of  the  time  when  the  daytime  is  not. 

I  sat  on  the  ground 

To-day, 
With  a  hound; 
And  he  was  the  brother  of  me. 

Exceedingly 
Beautiful  were  his  eyes; 
Gentle  and  merry  and  brown. 
Ah  it  was  sweet  to  be  down 
On  a  level  with  him  and  all  things  there 
In  the  grass. 


IN  A  PRISM.  79 

We,  who  are  tall, 
How  much  of  pleasure  we  pass  ! 
Of  the  joy  which  the  little  and  earth-close  know  ! 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

There  is  place  for  me, 

Discovery, 

Wonder,  adventure  and  mystery, 
In  the  forests  of  ragweed  and  clover, 
In  the  silvas  of  the  grass; 
Where  the  beetles  roam, 
And  the  butterfly  hovereth  over, 
The  humming-bird  is  ruby  lightning  and  thunder, 
The  toad  is  a  gnome, 
The  pebble  a  rock, 

The  harlequin-spider  swings  his  silvery  net, 
Dew-wet 
On  the  fret, 
And  to  us,  thereunder, 
The  tall  lily  is  goodlier  than  the  palm. 

O  soul, 

There  is  room  ! 
We  are  free ! 

In  the  inness  of  things  there  is  room, 
There  is  room  in  the  wind  and  the  sea, 
There  is  room  in  the  crowds  of  the  tree, 
In  the  multitudes  of  the  grass. 
There  is  welcome  for  me 
In  the  beauty  of  things; 
In  the  sunset 
I  am  home. 

Did  you  ever  swim  in  the  sky  ? 
Often  have  I, 


8o  WIND-HARP  SOXGS. 

And  hung  in  the  air  like  a  kite, 
I  could  turn  to  the  left  or  the  right, 

And  go 
Or  high  or  low 
In  the  atmosphere 

Of  crystal. 
Come  up  with  me  there  ! 

We  will  fly 

To  the  top  of  the  purple  cloud 
Where  the  shrill  hawk  circles; 
We  will  sit  on  the  golden  verge; 

We  will  feel  the  urge 
Of  the  winds  of  the  world; 
We  will  see  the  crimson  stain  the  side 
Of  the  cliffs  we  ride; 
We  will  have  sight, 

Aright, 
Like  the  high  gods, 

Tall, 
Overall. 

0  soul, 

1  surmise 

We  are  too  achromatic. 
Would  it  not  be  wise, 

Sometimes, 

To  live  in  radiant  rainbows? 

In  the  Iris-land  perfume  is  food, 

Music  is  breath, 

Color  is  sight, 

The  winds  are  what  eloquence  saith; 
Love  is  the  moon  of  the  night, 

Glamour  her  light; 
For  stars,  beautiful  eyes, 


EPICUREAN.  81 

And  for  sunrise 

A  smile. 

O  would 
It  not,  for  a  while, 

Be  well 

To  dwell 
In  a  prism  ? 


EPICUREAN. 

H  ! — sing  glad  heart,  sing 

Thy  pean; — 
There  is  but  one  wisdom,  even  joy 

And  kindly  wishing ! 
Well  saith  the  Epicurean: — 
To-day  be  happy,  for  to-morrow  die 

Thou  must. 
Therefore  to-day  is  glad  perfectness  of  life, 

Breath, 

Innocence,  and  happy-hearted  laughter, 
With  manly  earnestness  of  strife; 
To-morrow  cometh  sweet  Death, 
The  blending  with  the  dear  brown  dust, 
And — how  think  you? — nothing  after? 


A1 


82  WIND-HARP  SOi\GS. 


SELF. 

TO  be  sufficient  unto  self! — to  me, 
Who    fain    would    stand   on   purest    heights 
serene, 

Where  suns  rise  first,  sink  last,  and  all  is  clean, 
This  seems  the  acme  of  philosophy, 
The  one  great  need  of  whoso  would  be  free: 

Mine  own  sure  friend,  no  matter  how  demean 

My  fellow  selves,  nor  what  may  come  between, 
I  know  no  lack  of  love,  nor  sympathy. 
With  reverence  still  before  myself  to  stand, 

To  learn,  to  love,  to  honor  all  therein, 

Knowing  self-injury  alone  as  sin, 
And  sin  to  others,  sin  at  second-hand — 
I  deem  a  sane  man's  thought,  and  therefore  grand, 

The  attitude  of  one  whom  truth  helps  win. 


DRIFTED    LIKE    A    WIND-BLOWN 
LEAF  TO-DAY. 

1  DRIFTED  like  a  wind-blown  leaf  to-day, 
Along  a  rambling,  country,  back-roadway, 
Whose  unkempt  banks  and  bed  as  red  as  rust, 
And  white  stones  scattered  in  its  ruddy  dust, 
W7ere  toned  with  autumn  sunlight's  mellow  ray, 
That  soft,  on  all  things  like  ajdamour  lay, 
And  russet  hue  of  leaves,  which  every  gust 
Of  wind  sent  whirling  with  imperious  must. 


A  FACE  SERENE.  83 

A  giant  mastiff,  gentle,  by  my  side, 
With  lion-front  and  hue  of  eye  and  hide, 
Was  comrade  with  me,  happy,  wandering  there, 
Blown  onward  by  the  wanton  piercing  air, 
Marking  with  me,  approved,  the  gray  and  green 
Of  cedars  and  of  farmsteads  quaint  that  flanked 
the  scene. 


A  FACE  SERENE. 

I  WOULD  my  face  were  as  a  god's  in  mien, 
Not  proud,  nor  pitiless,  nor  taint  with  scorn, 
But  calm,  illuminate  with  joy  inborn; 
The  face  of  one  whose  eyes  to  smile  are  seen 
As  deep,  still  fountains,  crystal-clear  and  clean, 
Hold  visions  sweet  of  blue-sky  peace  'mid  thorn 
And  crag  of  rudest  wilderness,  uptorn; 
"Self   peace! — To  others  peace!"    from  depths 

serene. 
Ah  !  beautiful  are  lips  that  restful  move, 

And   strong,   smooth   brows   that  fairly,  calmly 

think, 

And  gentle  eyes  whose  courage  is  to  death; 
The  fair,  strong  features  whoso  sees  must  love, 
The  firm,  strong  hands  that  with  yours  truly  link, 
The  pleasant  mouth  whence   cometh   Truth's 
sweet  breath. 


WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


EVENING. 

A  PLAQUE  of  gold,  up  slips  the  moon 
Above  the  shadeful  eastern  hills; 
Far-floating,  like  a  big  balloon, 
Its  pale  light  crimping  on  the  rills. 

The  little  stars  come  twitching  out, 

Like  spiders  on  a  sky-blue  wall, 
Twinkling  their  liule  legs  about — 

See  there  ! — that  one  just  had  a  fall. 

Each  firefly  strikes  his  little  light 
And  joins  him  to  the  gay  quadrille; 

Brisk,  eager  bats  flap  through  the  night; 
We  all  receipt  mosquitoes'  bill. 

The  whip-poor-will's  clear  sounding  note 
Comes  echoing  from  the  black-caved  wood 

Where  great,  wise  owls  silent  float, 
Or  screech  and  hoot  in  comic  mood. 


The  oars  dip  softly  in  the  mere, 

A  girl's  light  laugh  thrills  on  the  breeze, 

Rich,  murmuring  tones  come  to  the  ear — 
What  import  have  such  sounds  as  these  ? 

The  wavelets  ripple  by  the  prow, 
The  moonbeams  sparkle  on  her  hair, 

His  form  is  bending  toward  her  now, 
And — we  had  better  leave  them  there. 


A  SONG  OF  SAD  LOVE.  85 


A  SONG  OF  SAD  LOVE. 

O  DEAREST  love  of  mine  ! 
Thou  lovest  not  to  kill, 
But  it  must  be 
That  cruelty 
Is  deep  in  thee. 
For  oft  thy  moods  incline 
My  heart  to  spill, 
My  hopes  to  tease. 

Though  all  thy  charms  so  please, 

I  can  not  hope  for  ease 

With  thee,  but  pain, 

For  it  is  plain 

Thy  sweet  eyes  find  delight 

In  my  sad  plight 

And  baffled  suit. 

The  fruit 

Of  Tantalus 

Thy  grace 

For  all  my  prayer; 

Witli  half-averted  face, 

And  smiling  eye, 

Thou,  careless, 

Hearest  my  sigh, 

And  hold, 

O  beautiful  !  but  cold, 

My  love  in  light  esteem — 

Ah,  foolishly  I  dream  ! — 

Thou  wilt  not  spare. 


86  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

O  pity  me, 

For  it  must  be 

That  I  should  so  love  thee  ! 

Man  cannot  'scape  his  fate, 

Nor  soon,  nor  late, 

Be  other  than  he  must. 


And  yet  I  trust 

And  dare  to  hope  ; 

Before  me  there  doth  ope, 

Like  as  the  mirage,  fair,  might  cheat  the  sight 

Of  one  upon  the  desert  sand, 

Such  vistas  of  delight, 

With  groves  of  peace, 

And  springs  of  calm  content, 

As  make  me  raptured  stand, 

And  give  me  no  surcease 

Of  longings,  theevvard  spent. 

I  weary  thee 

With  all  these  plaintive  moans, 

And  this  my  love-sick  air  ; 

And  yet  so  dreamily 

Thou  listenest  my  tones, 

And  eke  my  tender  prayer, 

That  I  may  not  forbear, — 

I  am  not  wont  to  supplicate, 
But  such  is  now  my  fate  ! 

Ah,  Soul  within  my  soul  ! 
O  Heart-beat  of  my  heart ! 
If  we  must  live  apart 
There  is  no  perfect  anywhere. 
And  all  my  days  shall  wear 


A  SONG  OF  SAD  LOVE.  87 

This  sorrow  like  a  thorn, 
And  all  fields  shall  me  warn  : 
"Yea,  this  too  must  be  borne  " — 
What  shall  me  then  console  ! 

Presumptious  is  my  love, 
Thou  art  so  much  above, 
So  better,  everyway,  than  I, 
And  yet  I  cannot  still  this  cry, 
My  great  need  makes  me  bold, 
I  may  not  rest  my  heart 
Till  all  of  it  is  told. 

My  love  hath  this  one  art 
Of  poetry  ; 

I  needs  must  sing  to  thee  : 
Most  like  the  love-smit  bird, 
Whose  ardent  notes  are  heard, 
From  shaken  throat,  elate, 
Imploring,  wooingly, 
His  coy,  reluctant  mate. 

O  love,  we  are  so  near 

In  every  hope  and  fear, 

In  every  dream  and  thought, 

And  all  that  thou  dost  state 

Hath  kindredship  so  clear 

To  somewhat  I  have  wrought, 

That  I  am  moved  to  build, 

Audaciously, 

Whilst  thou  art  kind  to  me, 

Before  thy  sight 

The  visions  that  I  see 

With  pleasuance  filled 

Of  our  delight. 


WIND- HARP  SONGS. 


I  meet  thee,  O  my  fair, 

In  vernal  woods, 

Among  the  birds, 

And  note  the  soft  surprise 

Leap  to  thy  cheek, 

The  lovely  lips  that  speak, 

And  eloquent,  sad  eyes. 

We  go  a-rambling  there, 

The  trees  among 

And  emerald  fields, 

Where  blades  and  buds  are  young, 

The  day  is  young, 

The  year, 

The  flowers  that  have  upsprung, 

And  we  in  heart,  my  dear. 

Like  children,  so  we  stand, 

Hand  clasped  in  hand, 

Beside  the  forest  pool, 

Or  gather  mosses,  cool, 

Among  the  ferns  ; 

Or  take  the  devious  turns 

Which  ever  hath 

A  woodland  path. 

While  woodsy  fragrance  yields 

From  leaves,  damp  mold,  or  brake, 

At  every  step  we  take. 

I  gather  flowers  there 

To  twine  within  thy  hair, 

And  bring  thee  guerdon,  strange, 

Of  lichen,  toadstool, 

Frond, 


A  SONG  OF  SAD  LOVE.  89 

The  bleached  tortoise-shell, 
The  club-moss  from  the  pond, 
The  Indian-pipe's  pale  bell, 
And  such  like  simple  spoil 
Of  woodland  range 
And  sylvan  soil. 

For  thou  art  good  to  me, 
Thy  tones  are  sweet, 
(On  this  our  holiday 
And  treat), 

Thy  features,  erst  so  sad, 
Wear  now  no  care, 
For  Nature's  sympathy 
And,  it  mayhap,  my  own, 
Hath  ta'en  all  away, 
And  left  thee  glad 
With  joy  in  life  alone. 

I  lead  thee  to  a  seat 
On  fallen  log 
And  cast  me  at  thy  feet — 
The  blackbirds  whistle  sweet 
Around  the  bog — 
And,  when  I  lift  mine  eyes 
I  see  thy  dear  face  there, 
Bent  down  as  from  the  skies — 
My  angel ! — true  and  fair. 
*  *  #  # 

'Tis  slumberous  afternoon 

In  June, 

And  I,  in  easy  chair, 

Read  thee  a  pleasant  tale  ; 

Swinging  thy  hammock,  where, 


90  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Beneath  the  shadeful  trees, 

All  murmurous  with  bees, 

The  languid  calm  of  summer  thro'  us  thrills. 

The  banks  within  the  vale 

Quiver  with  heat ; 

The  distant  hills, 

From  our  breeze-drawn  retreat, 

Before  thy  dreamy  gaze, 

Melt  in  an  azure  haze. 

A-swing 

With  gentlest  motioning, 

At  ease, 

Thou,  upward,  through  the  trees, 

Perceivest  swallows  twittering  fly 

With  fluttering  wing, 

And  graceful  dip  and  spring, 

Against  the  dark-blue  sky  ; 

While  Alp-clouds  pile  them  high 

Within  the  widening  West. 

Lo,  all  is  Sabbath  rest ! 
And  yet 
Holds  threat 
Of  thunder  by  and  by, 
When  Night, 

With  Shadow,  draweth  nigh 
To  fright 
The  Light 
And  put  out  sight. 
#  *  *  * 

I  sit  beside  thee,  dear, 
And  hold  thy  hand  ; 


A  SONG  OF  SAD  LOVE.  91 

We  speak  not  any  word, 
For  all  the  night  is  grand 
With  flames  we  do  not  fear, 
And  over  all  is  heard 
The  thunder's  breaking  roar, 
And  rushing,  swift  downpour 
Upon  the  roofs  of  rain. 

We  feel  the  solemn  charm 
Of  midnight  and  of  storm — 
An  organ  strain — 
And  are  as  one  in  twain, 
For  thou  art  close  to  me, 
Reclining  on  my  breast, 
And  in  my  sphere  of  calm 
Is  all  thy  soul  at  rest. 

A  gently  stroking  hand 

Hath  loosed  fatigue's  close  band, 

And  drowsy  fancies  creep 

Upon  the  sense, 

Like  as  a  little  child, 

Within  some  sure  defence 

Of  sheltering  arms, 

Secure  from  all  alarms  , 

To  Dreamland  is  beguiled, 

Thou  art  a-nest. 

The  thunder's  muttering  threat 

Dies  far  away  ; 

Upon  the  mountains  wet 

Its  echoes  play  ; 

I  lie  awake  and  hear 

The  gentle  rain 

Soft  beating  on  the  roof 

And  window  pane ; 


92  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

I  may  not  sleep  at  all 

For  deep  content, 

For  ended  is  my  call, 

Thou  art  no  more  aloof, 

My  loss  hath  turned  to  gain, 

And  all  my  breast 

Is  with  fair  locks  besprent, 

Where  thy  dear  head  is  pressed, 

In  breathings  soft  and  deep, 

Of  utter  sleep. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  GREEN,  GREEN 
SEA. 

1MET  a  milk-white  woman  there, 
Down  in  the  depths  of  the  green,  green  sea, 
Wrapped  in  a  net  of  her  red-gold  hair — 
She  threw  its  mantle  over  me. 

Her  breasts  like  great  foam-bubbles  were, 
Down  in  the  depths  of  the  green,  green  sea, 

And  pearls  were  strung  on  her  red-gold  hair, 
In  the  woven  net  that  compassed  me. 

"  O  whence  come  you  that  seek  me  here, 
Down  in  the  depths  of  the  green,  green  sea  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  dead  man,  drowned  anear ; 
O  who  are  you  that  speaks  to  me  ?  " 

Her  eyes  were  blue  as  the  deep  water, 
With  a  phosphor  gleam  thro'  the  green  sea, — 

A  wonderful,  beautiful  sea-daughter, 
Swaying  and  smiling  there  at  me. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  GREEN  SEA.      93 

"  O  I  was  drowned  an  hundred  years 

Ago,  in  the  depths  of  the  green  sea, 
And  all  these  pearls  are  all  my  tears, 

And  in  this  net  I  drowndexl  me. 

"An  hundred  years  ago  we  sailed, 
Out  over  the  depths  of  this  green  sea  ; 

A  corsair  crew — O  fate  bewailed  ! — 
Struck  us  and  slew  all  souls  but  me. 

"And  me  they  stript  to  taste  my  shame, 

And  wove  a  net  of  my  hair  on  me, 
I  'scaped,  and  leapt  like  a  blushing  flame 

Into  the  depths  of  the  green,  green  sea. 

"Now  you  have  come  to  be  my  love, 
Down  in  the  depths  of  this  green,  green  sea, 

To  sleep  in  a  cave  in  a  coral  grove — 
O  come,  dear  love,  and  lie  with  me  !  " 

She  wrapped  me  then  in  her  mesh  of  hair, 
Down  in  the  depths  of  the  green,  green  sea  ; 

A  woman's  tress  is  stronger  than  prayer, 
And  never  a  prayer  escaped  me. 

Now  happy  the  lives  of  us  so  dead, 

Down  in  the  depths  of  the  green,  green  sea  ; 

Where  still,  slow  currents  smooth  our  bed, 
And  I  hold  her,  and  she  holds  me. 


94  WIND- HARP  SO N GS. 


THE  LATTER  DAYS. 

OH  cold  and  blithe  are  the  latter  days, 
When  the  winds  go  wandering  round  and 

round, 

With  the  brown  leaves  drifting,  nowhere  bound, 
And  the  skies  are  pale,  and  the  hills  a-haze, 
And  the  rabbit  leapeth  before  the  hound. 

The  woods  meseemeth  a  shipping's  spars, 

From   the   dead-leaf  sea   which   the    world    hath 

drowned, — 

If  I  were  dead  would  my  soul  be  found, 
Playmate  of  winds  and  the  dancing  stars, 
Tumbling  the  dead  leaves  over  the  ground  ? 


ONE  HAPPY  HOUR. 

ONE  happy  hour,  one  afternoon, 
I  lay  in  my  boat  on  the  open  bay, 
Cradled  and  rocked  by  the  rythmic  sway 
Of  lapping  and  laughing  waves  at  play, 
Dreaming  and  dreaming  whatever  I  would. 

With  pulses  tripping  a  pleasant  tune, 
As  young  as  ever,  and  life  as  fair, 
A  boy,  on  my  back,  with  never  a  care, 
Drinking  the  joy  of  the  salt-sweet  air  — 
"Live  in  the  present,  for  Life  is  good  !  " 


YOU  STOOD.  95 


CHOCOLATE. 

SWEET  like  a  child,  but  wise,  so  wise  ; 
A  little  brown   woman   with    bright  brown 
eyes  ; 

Piquant  and  charming  ;  magical  bands 
Weaving  with  eloquent,  soft  little  hands, 

Daintily,  tenderly  ;  merry  and  sweet ; 
Smiling  and  smiling  from  eyelash  to  feet ; — 
Closer  and  closer,  ever,  to  thee, — 
O  little  brown  woman,  why  winnest  thou  me  ? 


YOU  STOOD. 

YOU  stood  a  sweet,  still  statue,  looking  down 
To  see  him  pass ;  the  while  your  woman's 
heart 

With  him  went  too,  and  all  your  vibrant  soul 
Swung  struggling  with  strange  moods,  and  yet  no 

word 
Nor  sign — "  Good-bye  !  " — O  irony  of  Fate  ! 

So  might  some  lute,  most  daintily  attuned 
To  lays  of  love,  in  soundless  grief  perceive 
The  only  hand  which  knew  the  touch  to  strike 
Its  waiting  music  out  to  life,  withdrawn  : — 


96  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Come    back !     O    touch   me  once  again !     Come 

back  ! 

•**•**** 

O  wonderful  and  sweet ;  why  should  you  love  him 
so! 


if        Poetry  is  the  rhythmical  interpretation  and  ex 
pression  of  charm. 


A  LARGER  LIFE. 

WAKE  to  the  dawn  of  a  Larger  Life, 
Sleepers  dull  in  the  Night  of  Now  ; 
Beat  your  hearts  to  a  wider  strife, 

Build  your  thought  in  a  broader  brow  ! 

For  the  hills  are  high  (hat  hold  the  sky, 

And  the  waters  are  wide  that  wash  the  world, 

And  the  breaths  of  all  r,iot,  that  live  or  die, 
The  winds  have  given  and  caught  and  whirled. 

Be  free  and  conscious  of  all  you  are, 

Dignity  and  a  selfness  great, 
Life  at  one  with  the  farthest  star, 

With  all  of  Nature  in  every  state  ! 

For  the  hills  are  high  that  hold  the  sky, 
And  the  waters  are  wide  that  wash  the  world, 

And  the  breaths  of  all  men,  you  and  /, 
Forever  and  ever  the  ivinds  have  hurled. 


GREA  TNESS.  97 


GREATNESS. 

SHALL  a  man  always  long  for  greatness  and  yet 
never  attain  it? 
Shall   he  spend   the  treasure  years  of  his  life  in 

training  for  great  battles, 
And  then  see  his  heart  eaten  with  rust, 
His  hands  soften  with  sloth  ? 
Shall  he  lie  like  a  log  on  the  beach, 
Stranded  out  of  the  currents  of  the  great  sea,  for 
ever  ? 

Nay,  it  matters  not ! — 

For  this  is  greatness  to  be  always  ready  for  it. 

It  is  not  the  great  deed  that  makes  the  great  man, 

The  deed  is  but  the  outward  sign, 

Not  greatness  but  the  publication  of  it  ; 

For  though  the  man  be  stripped,  dumb,  paralyzed, 

He  can  still  be  great. 

Greatness  inheres  in  the  great  thought,  the  clear 
purpose,  the  serene  poise,  the  wide  view,  the 
overlook  ; 

In  individuality,  ability,  reserve  force,  knack,  cour 
age,  knowledge  ; 

Not  in  what  you  have  done,  but  in  what  you  can 
and  will  do  if  need  come. 

The  cannon  may  nut  speak  for  a  decade, 

But,  if  it  be  loaded, 

It  is  always  sublime,  deadly,  terrible. 

##*•*** 

When  the  time  comes — ! 


98  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


CRANFORD  WATER. 

AN  ink-black  flow  beneath  November's  gray 
And  serious  sky  : — upon  it,  as  I  stay 
My  listless  footstep  on  a  bridge,  I  spy 
A  dead  leaf,  sapless,  drifting  slowly  by — 
Still  stream,   brown  leaf,  bare  branches  pointing 

high  ! 
And  musing  much  I  wend  my  aimless  way. 


All  loves  inspire — weak  loves  vanity  and  a  will 
ingness  to  deceive ;  great  loves  nobility  and  a 
passion  to  deserve. 


PLACE   ME   AGAIN,   I  PRAY,  GREAT 
FATE! 

F)LACE  me  again,  I  pray,  great  Fate, 

1        Beside  a  nature  broad  and  grave  and  sweet ! 

To  all  my  nobler  thirsts  and  passions  mate  ; 

Inspired  and  sane  again,  great  Fate, 

Within  the  realm  of  some  soul-queen,  so  great 

That  Love  himself,  page-like,  waits  at  her  feet, 
O  place  me  once  again,  great  Fate, 

Beside  a  nature  broad  and  grave  and  sweet ! 


A  SOUVENIR  VILLANELLE.          99 


A  SOUVENIR  VILLANELLE. 

IN  an  open  boat  on  a  winding  stream, 
Lilies  and  flags  and  a  flashing  sun — 
Do  not  forget  how  the  waters  gleam  ! 

Souvenirs  fit  for  a  poet's  theme, 

Gather  we  here  where  the  ripples  run 
In  an  open  boat  on  a  winding  stream. 

Flowers  and  friends  that  we  hold  in  esteem, 

Shall  we  remember  when  all  is  done  ? 
Do  not  forget  how  the  waters  gleam  ! 

Life  is  for  all  but  a  floating  dream 

(Tallied  by  trophies,  memory  won,) 
In  an  open  boat  on  a  winding  stream. 

Threat  of  storm  and  a  bright  sunbeam 

(How  ends  the  voyage  when  once  begun  ?)- 
Do  not  forget  how  the  waters  gleam  ! 

Are  real  things  fairest,  or  things  that  seem  ? 

Shall  we  look  back  upon  this  one  ? — 
In  an  open  boat  on  a  winding  stream  ? — 
Do  not  forget  how  the  waters  gleam  ! 


TOO  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENCE. 

BEYOND  lies  a  valley  of  silence, 
Clear  night  without  tempest  or  star, 
Naught  holding  but  darkness  and  stillness, 
And  calmness  that  nothing  can  mar. 

We  go  to  that  valley  of  silence, 
Days  happy  or  sad  bear  us  on, 

Repose  in  that  valley  of  silence, 

When  joyance  and  sadness  are  done. 

Peace,  peaceful  that  valley  of  silence, 
Full  of  great  words  ever  unsaid; 

Pure  silence,  clear  calmness,  real  resting — 
Sweet  echoless  vale  of  the  dead. 


THE  LITTLE  BROWN  OWL. 

THE  little  brown  owl 
That  sat  in  the  tree — 
With  great,  gold  eyes 
He  looked  at  me. 

He  laughed   "  Ho-Ho !  "     And   I   laughed    "He- 
He!" 
Afthat  little  brown  owl  that  sat  in  the  tree. 

The  little  brown  owl, 

That  sat  in  the  tree, 
With  gold-black  eyes 

Winked  thrice  at  me. 


TRIOLET.  IOT 

He  laughed  "  Ho-Ho  !  "  and  I  laughed  "  He-He  !" 
For  I  thought  him  a  droll  bird,  certainlie. 

That  little  brown  owl, 

That  sat  in  the  tree, 
Seemed  over-wise 

Exceedinglie. 

But  he  laughed  "Ho-Ho!"  and   I   laughed  "He- 
He!  " 
At  the  solemn  face  he  made  in  the  tree. 

O  little  brown  owl, 

Tell  me,  prithee, 
Why  art  thou  so 

Solemcholie  ? 

But  he  laughed  "  Ho-Ho  !"  till   I   laughed  "He- 
He  !" 
And  he  spake  me  no  more  for  a  veritie. 


TRIOLET. 

TO  lie  on  one's  back  and  look  at  the  sky, 
Up  through  the  branches  and  leaves  of  green — 
Why,  I  used  to  do  that  when  only  so  high  ! 
Lie  on  my  back  and  look  up  at  the  sky, 
At  the  white  and  the  blue,  and  wish  I  could  fly. 

It  gives  one  a  feeling  so  great  and  serene, 
To  lie  on  one's  back  and  gaze  at  the  sky, 

Up  through  the  branches  and  leaves  of  green. 


102  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


OF  AUTUMN  WINE. 

OF  autumn  wine,  sweet  friends,  I   fain   would 
sing; 

That  golden  nectar,  ether  strained,  doth  sting 
My  nerves,  intoxicate,  to  brighter  bliss 
Of   brighter  dreams  than  Madjoon  slaves  e'er 

wis 

When  from  their  pipes  the  white,  slow  smoke  doth 
ring. 

That  topaz-hearted,  amber  drink  forth  bring 
In  crystal,  variant-dyed  by  leaves  a-swing, 
While  dreamily  we  drain  the  bowls  we  kiss 
Of  autumn  wine. 

About  our  halls  an  azure  haze  doth  cling, 
And  on  our  walls  are  vagrant  birds,  whistling 
In  music  clear,  their  farewell  songs — 'tis  this 
That  bids  me  mind  that  somewhat  we  must  miss 
For  every  draught  we  quaff,  with  heedless  fling, 
Of  autumn  wine. 


THE  DISINHERITED.  103 


THE   DISINHERITED. 

THEY  cluster  at  every  corner; 
They^wearily  pace  the  land; 
Their  starving  eyes  devour  each  loaf ; 
They  stretch  the  begging  hand. 

They  are  hungry  and  sick  and  tired; 

Their  bleeding  footsteps  lag; 
My  brothers  ! — and  none  to  help  them  ! 

Their  nakedness  mocked  with  a  rag  ! 

They  bake,  and  others  have  eaten; 

They  burn,  but  others  are  warm; 
They  build,  but  their  heads,  unsheltered, 

Are  bare  to  the  pitiless  storm. 

They  till,  but  the  crop  goes  from  them; 

They  reap,  but  "  The  Harvest  Home  " 
Means  to  them  that  their  product  is  stolen; 

They  brew,  and  taste  but  the  foam. 

Ah  God  ! — how  sadly  they  call  Thee; 

If  Thou  wert,  Thou  couldst  not  withstand; 
But  always  the  wicked  have  triumphed; 

The  cunning  and  strong  rule  the  land. 

The  hearts  of  the  mothers  are  breaking; 

The  daughters  are  bedded  with  shame; 
The  fathers  are  brutish  with  labor; 

The  thoughts  of  the  sons  are  a  flame. 


104  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

And  Hatred  and  Arson  and  Murder, 
Like  demons  they  beckon  and  tempt, 

The  hand  to  the  sword  is  outreaching — 
Blood  !     Blood  ! — O  can  nothing  exempt ! 

O  Wisdom  be  instant  and  help  us  ! — 
Quick  rearing  thy  radiant  crest — 

O  brothers,  the  sword  is  a  traitor ! 
The  calm,  thoughtful  methods  are  best. 

The  way  of  the  wise  is  the  best, 

Which  thinkers  have  pondered  and  planned; 
The  Gordian  tangles  are  slipping — 

Behold  ! — your  release  is  at  hand. 


LOVE  IS  A  RIDDLE. 

T    OVE  came  to  me  with  a  new-appearing  head  : 
\-j     "  I  see  you  do  not  know  me,"  Love  said, 
"But   I  have  many  forms,  and   in   no   one   am  I 

altogether  wed." 

"  You  are  truly  very  strange,  Love,"  said  I, 
"You  are  never  twice  alike,  and  I  cannot  tell  the 

why. 
Tell  me,  sweet  Love,  are  you  always  thus  unlike 

and  appareled  differently  ?  " 
"  Always,"  said  Love,  "  lest  men  weary  of  me, 
Lest  with  limits  of  'I  know,'  they  should  hold  me 

less  than  free." 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HILLS.  105 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  BEACH. 

BLUE  sky,  and  in  the  distance  sails,  no  cloud  ; 
A  sea-bird  winnowing  the  salty  air  ; 
A  sweep  of  shining  sand,  a  pebbly  glare 
Beneath  the  sun  ;  foamed  sea-dogs  running  loud 
Upon  the  beach,  choked  sullen  back,  half-cowed  ; 
Knee-deep,  two  blue-clad  women,  walking  there, 
And  hand-in-hand,  with  shining,  unbound  hair, 
Their  faces  strong  and  sweet,  their  motions  proud. 

A  shell,  upwashed,  doth  whisper  in  my  ear  : — 
"The  sea— the  sea  hath  washed  full  many  hearts 
Their  red  love  out,  and  left  them  cold  and  still." 

But  sun  and  sparkling  wind  wot  not  of  fear, 
Nor  those  fair  figures  happily  free  of  arts, 
To-day  is  joy — let  morrows  work  their  will ! 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HILLS. 

1MIND  me  how  I  walked,  one  summer's  day, 
Adown  a  hillside,  straw-hat  on  my  hair, 
Coat  off  and  "pants"  in  boots,  all  debonair; 
Bearing  two  pails  for  someone  going  my  way, 
Sunbonneted,  in  country  girl's  array, 
Demure,  with  plump  hands   berry-stained  and 

bare 

And  pleased  shy  eyes  beneath  a  forehead  fair, 
While  something  glad  about  us  seemed  to  play. 


106  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Well-met,  and  not  quite  all  an  accident, 

Though  we  were   willing  each  should   think    as 

much, 

She  capped  the  knoll  as  I  the  gap  unrailed, 
And  subtle  glamours  all  about  us  blent ; 
That  braid  of  tawny  hair  I  longed  to  touch, 
Yet   loved   the   sweet   half-fear  that  just   pre 
vailed. 


SUNSET  ON7  HOPATCONG. 

PLACID,  softly  shaded  as  a  dove's  breast, 
A-tint  with  olive  green  where  in  it  sink 
Dark  shadows  of  the  hills  along  its  brink, 
As  some  gay  bird  is  taken  by  its  nest 
The  wide  lake  fills  with  all  the  painted  West  ; 
All  mingled  stains  and  tender  lights  a-link, 
Pale  gold  and  flame  ef  rose  and  flush  of  pink, 
Gleam  there  ere  droop  the  purple  plumes  to  rest. 

Entranced,  I  see  some  red  Nariticong 
Dip  paddle  in  those  pools  of  sunset  stain, 

His  wild  dark  eye,  beneath  his  eagle  plumes, 
Smiling  a  little  at  the  chanted  song 

His  young  squaw  sings  of  happy  hunting  plain- 
A  savage  dream,  which  all  the  West  illumes. 


The  more  we  grow  the  more  we  become  at  peace 
with  the  Universe,  the  more  tolerantly  we  regard 
the  motives  and  motions  of  others,  the  more  rest- 
fully  and  contentedly  we  yield  ourselves,  to  our 
selves,  the  less  we  fear  from  laissez  faire. 


FIREFLIES.  107 


FIREFLIES. 

I  SAT  at  ease  upon  my  latticed  porch, 
While  in  the  cloud-walled  west  the  thunders 

smote 

Their  muffled  drums  and  up  the  east  'gan  float, 
In  globe  of  gold,  sweet  Luna's  lover's  torch, 
While    bats  and   bugs  that    dread  the    midday's 

scorch, 
Flew,  chirped  and  hummed  ;  and  yonder  in  the 

womb 

Of  very  night  the  fireflies  lit  the  gloom 
With  sparks  that  mocked  the  lightning's   sudden 
search. 

You  bring  unto  my  memory  thrillingly, 
Beloved  insects,  fitfully  luminous, 
Visions  of  sultry  evenings  long  ago, 
When  by  your  light  I  marked  her  cheeks  deep 

glow, 

As  in  the  night  my  passion  amorous 
I  breathed,  and  knew  she  listened  willingly. 


io8  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


THE  LODGE. 

BEHOLD  it !— thus  :— a  rude  room  ribbed  with 
logs, 

A  puncheon  floor,  a  roof  of  riven  boards ; 
A  fire-cave  mouth  of  rocks,  whose  flame  affords 
The  only,  flickering  light ;  two  guant,  sad  dogs 
Outstretched  before,  their  dream  of  trails,  banks, 

bogs, 

Deer,   fox,   tongue-lapping  streams,    most  fit  ac 
cords 

With  all  that  garniture  of  hunter's  hoards — 
Horns,  flasks,  pelts,  guns,  dirks,  tools  and  trapper's 
togs. 

The    wood-wolf's    bark  wails   wide  beneath   the 

moon, 

That  coldly  paints  a  path  upon  the  lake 
To  where  the  wild  ducks  sleep  ;   the  screech-owl 

trills, 

All  stealthily  disports  the  barred  raccoon, 
The  bucks  come  down  and  splash  beside  the  brake 
For  on  his  robe  snores  now  the  One-who-Kills. 


SCARLET  TANAGER. 

A  SCARLET  bird  in  a  grass  green  lane, 
Glowing  beneath  the  lilac-bloom  ; 
In  a  crystal  pool  of  the  recent  rain, 
Flinging  pearls  from  a  preening  plume. 


I  DREAM  IN  THE  AMBER  A  UTUMN.  109 


I  DREAM  IN  THE  AMBER  AUTUMN. 

OI  DREAM  in  the  amber  autumn, 
When  the  forests  are  filled  with  flame, 
And  the  haze  hangs  blue  on  the  mountains, 
And  the  days  march  ever  the  same. 

When  the  palette  is  painted  with  sadness, 
Fire,  sweetness  and  passionate  breath, 

On  a  background  of  purple  distance, 
With  the  blood-tints  and  ashes  of  death. 

When  the  wigwams  of  maize  are  awaiting 

For  the  spoiler  to  ravish  their  store, 
And  the  brown  leaves  are  rustling  and  drifting — 

A  Dead  Sea  with  never  a  shore. 

I  am  tranced  in  the  mellow  misting 

Of  the  amorous  atmosphere, 
And  the  slumberous  warmth  and  languor 

Of  the  smoky  and  golden  air. 

I  am  proud  of  the  sumach  and  maple, 
Whose  banners  are  crimson  and  gold 

Tho'  the  days  of  their  winter  are  coming 
And  the  days  of  their  summer  are  told. 

And  I  dream  in  at-one-ness  with  Nature, 
Stained  through  with  her  beauty  and  pain  ; 

I  am  drunk  with  the  wine  of  her  color, 
With  the  pangs  of  her  deaths  I  am  slain. 


WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


ANEW. 

A  LISTENING  stillness  in  the  morning  air, 
An  air  of  night-sliade,  touched  with  coming 
fire, 

With  cooling  freshness  weaning  my  desire, 
While    new    hopes    paint    their  dawn  on  night's 

despair: 
I  kiss  the  sad  sweet  lips  that  are  so  fair, 

I  read  the  tear-bright  eyes  that  bravely  smile, 
And  her  dear,  quivering  mouth  that  would  be 
guile, 
And  count  that  woman-courage  more  than  prayer. 

O  love,  within  this  morning  cool  and  new, 
A  new  day  riseth  fair  within  my  view  ! 
For  you,  to-day,  I  tread  the  purple  crest 

Far,  far  above  the  passion-tainted  plain; 
For  you,  henceforth,  I  do  my  manhood's  best, 
And  peace,  like  this  bright  dew,  shall  ease  our 
pain. 


TO  LIFT  ONE'S  HEAD. 

TO  lift  one's  head  on  high,  on  high, 
And  look  beyond  it  all,  afar, 
The  petty  strife  and  party  cry, 

The  shallow  spites,  that  jar,  and  jar; 


TO  LIFT  ONE'S  HEAD. 

The  narrow  thoughts  of  partizans, 

So  pitiable  and  yet  so  proud, 
Self-deemed  of  truth  the  sole  defence, 

The  ear  so  shut,  the  mouth  so  loud. 

The  stupid  bounds  of  sect  and  clan 
That  think  their  little  worlds  hold  all; 

'Twould  burst  them  to  be  large  as  man, 
And  if  they  fail  the  heavens  fall; 

The  childish  formulas  of  creed, 
Babe-guesses  petrified  in  faith — 

"  Oh  weary,  weary,  weary  breed  ! — 
O  give  me  room  !  " — the  free  soul  saith. 

I  lift  my  head  on  high,  on  high, 

And  look  beyond  it  all,  afar, 
To  where  the  mountains  touch  the  sky, 

And  where  the  oceans  beat  the  bar. 


In  health  the  essential  word  is  balance,  the 
1  method,  motion;  exercise,  thorough,  searching,  all- 
inclusive;  for  the  body  running  is  the  perfect  exer 
cise,  for  the  mind,  writing.  A  good  runner — a  vig 
orous,  buoyant  man;  a  good  writer — a  facile,  well- 
educated  man.  In  a  nutshell — Verbwn  sat  sapienli. 


U2  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


A  TROPIC  HOPE. 

1HOLD,  heart  friends,  a  dream  of  years; 
A  visioned  hope,  dim  seen  through  fears. 

And  this  is  how  it  dreams  to  me, 
This  flower-en  wreathed  vagary:  — 

A  summer  isle  in  tropic  clime, 
With  peaks  volcanic,  sharp,  sublime, 

That  stab  from  out  the  level  sea 
And  pierce  the  blue  immensity 

Of  perfect  azure,  arching  clear, 

A  wind-washed,  sun-thrilled  atmosphere; 

While  at  their  feet  a  cirque  of  white 
And  dazzling  beach  flames  on  the  sight; 

Whence,  landward,  calls  a  thunderous  moan, 
The  sullen  surf's  deep  monotone, 

As  curving,  tumbling  breakers  roar, 
And,  foamy-lipped,  suck  at  the'shore. 

And  there,  far  up  a  mountain  side, 
'Mid  jungles,  cliffs  and  vistas  wide, 

(With  bridle-path,  a  steepy  stair, 
Rock-edging,  twisting,  half  in  air, 


A   TROPIC  HOPE.  113 

Upwinding  from  the  vale  below) 
A  terrace  hangs,  whereto  I  go. 

For  on  that  shelf  is  built  my  cot 

Of  palm  and  cane,  with  roof  inwrought 

Of  thatched  leaves;  with  vines,  intwined, 
Which  thatch  and  rafters  joining  bind; 

With  wattled  walls  that  frame  and  hold, 
And  floor  of  smooth,  down-beaten  mold; 

With  unglazed  windows,  opening  wide 
Their  shutters,  that  within  may  glide 

The  fresh,  bloom-scented  wind-of-trade, 
To  give  cool  hearts  to  noons  of  shade, 

When,  in  verandahs  low  and  deep, 

My  hammocks  swing  to  dreamless  sleep. 

My  furniture  my  own  hands  make 
From  knotted  spoil  of  jungle  brake, 

Jointed  bamboo  and  lustrous  woods 
Known  but  in  tropic  latitudes. 

My  floor  with  Indian  mats  is  spread, 
With  netted  guards  swings  free  my  bed. 

And,  all  about,  barbaric  spoil, 
Of  seaside  sport  and  jungle  toil, 

Adorn  floor,  ceiling,  or  the  side, 
Or  on  my  shelves  arranged  abide: 


ii4  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Sea-beans  and  sponges,  sea-shells  rare, 
Shark-jaws  and  beauteous  corals  fair; 

A  scarf  of  bark  as  fine  as  lace, 
A  mottled  tortoise  carapace; 

The  mailed  coat  of  cayman  grim, 
Flamingo-wing,  and  snake-fang  slim; 

Great  beetles,  transfixed  with  a  pin, 
A  coteau  sheathed  in  serpent  skin; 

Machetas,  keen,  with  heavy  blade; 
Riatas,  tough,  of  raw-hide  braid; 

A  rifle  cased  in  porpoise  hide, 

Fish  rods,  nets,  harpoons,  side  by  side; 

Spy-glasses,  pistols,  fossils,  gum 
And  reptiles  bottled  up  in  rum. 

With  goodly  pictures  here  and  there, 
And  books  and  papers  everywhere. 

My  house-cat  is  a  petted  snake, 
For  fly-traps,  lizard  tongues  I  take. 

Above,  a  screaming  parrot  swings, 
Chased  by  a  monkey  through  its  rings. 

Withon  my  board  cool  sherbets  plash 
In  cups  of  gourd  and  calabash, 

'Mong  Creole  baskets  heaped  with  fruit, 
Cassava  leaves  or  arrow  root, 


A   TROPIC  HOPE.  115 

Palm  cabbage,  sooth  and  delicate, 
Rich  sweet  potatoes,  yams  of  weight ; 

The  milk  of  goat  or  cocoa-nut, 
And  honey  combs  of  amber  glut ; 

Delicious  eggs  my  fowls  have  laid, 
And  fish  by  baited  hook  betrayed. 

Without,  my  faithful  dogs  unite 

To  guard  my  dwelling  day  and  night. 

I  have  a  cow,  a  pony,  goats, 

And  on  the  beach  behold  my  boats  ! 

Ah  !  such  as  this  is  wealth  indeed  ; 

Fat  grows  Content  where  lean  grows  Need. 

Happy  the  eye  that  clearly  sees 
The  worth  of  wise  simplicities  ; 

Their  wholesome  comfort,  sans  pretence, 
Their  pleasing  of  the  artist  sense. 

Eschew  the  love  of  luxury, 

The  simple  life  makes  whole  and  free. 

Beware  the  palace's  thorned  ease 
Welcome  the  cabin's  homely  peace. 


n. 


Around  my  home  there  stands  a  grove 
Of  tropic  palms  and  plants  I  love. 


1 1 6  WIND-  HA  R  P  SONGS. 

The  orange  and  the  sprawling  fig, 
The  manihot,  with  tubers  big  ; 

Sweet  grapes  and  olives  rich  with  oil, 
Guava's  fruit  that  asks  no  toil  ; 

The  palm  of  dates,  and  cocoa-nut, 

The  banyan,  whose  strange  limbs  down-put 

An  hundred  trunks,  instead  of  one, 
To  bear  its  leaves  against  the  sun  ; 

Acacia-foliaged  tamarind, 

The  lilac-flowered  Pride  of  Ind  ; 

Banana,  very  tree  of  life, 

Plumed  pampas-grass,  each  blade  a  knife  ; 

The  great  silk-cotton's  bole,  butressed, 
The  royal  palm  of  heavenward  crest ; 

The  passion  flower  and  fruit  divine, 
The  fragrant,  fair  vanilla  vine  ; 

The  coy  and  shrinking  mimosa 
The  flesh  preserving poypoya  ; 

The  woman-breast-like  pomegranite, 
Coffee,  mate  and  chocolate  ; 

The  cherimoya,  luscious,  sweet, 
Whoso  which  tastes  must  surely  eat  ; 

Pine-apples,  sweet  as  lady  lips 
When  Creole  kisses  Cupid  sips 


A  TROPIC  HOPE.  117 

In  tropic-passioned  ecstacy, 
In  tropic  bowers,  by  Carib  sea  ; 

Sweet  lemons,  limes  and  sapofa, 
Custard-apple  and  magnolia. 

But  ah  !  my  poem  must  not  clog 
Its  music  with  this  catalogue. 

I  will  be  brief  and  say  but  this 

Of  these  my  Eden  bowers  of  bliss  : 

An  hundred  fruits  and  sweets  are  here, 
Where  want  comes  not,  nor  famine  near  ; 

A  thousand  flowers  bloom  and  scent 
The  zephyrs  'neath  my  fruit-grove's  tent 

Of  wondrous  foliage  overthrown, 
With  ropes  of  sunlight  lacing  down. 

in. 

About  my  grove  sharp  hedges  fret 
Of  needled  Spanish  bayonet  ; 

Or  fence  of  giant  cacti,  high 
A  score  of  feet,  tall  cerei 

With  candelabrum  arms  beset, 

Aflame  with  flowers  when  night-dews  sweat. 

Or  thousand-handed  prickly  pear, 
With  cups  of  gold  and  weapons  bare  ; 


1 1 8  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Or  massive  agaves  ranked  in  rows 
Of  mighty  spears,  defy  ing  foes. 

And  here  are  arbors  deftly  made 
Of  living  bamboos,  lattice-laid, 

Their  feathery  foliage  green  between, 
Bignonios  netting  close  the  screen. 

And  here  are  hammocks,  gently  swayed 
Beneath  the  mango's  perfect  shade  ; 

And  here  are  paths  of  semi-gloom 
'Neath  arching  oleander's  bloom  ; 

And  here  are  vistas  fair  and  far — 
Inland,  to  mountain  walls  that  bar, 

Upward,  to  peaks  in  clearest  air, 
Downward — ah,  dizzy  ones,  beware  ! 

Seaward,  o'er  sweeps  of  boundless  blue 
To  where  the  sky  line  stops  the  view  ; 

The  mountain  walls  and  valley  beds 
The  tumbling  torrent's  silvern  threads  ; 

The  waves,  the  beach,  the  sails  that  pass- 
All  subject  to  my  eye  and  glass. 

Ah,  faith  ! — it  is  a  fair,  fair  dream, 

And  foolish,  too,  my  good  friends  deem ; 

But  then  we  live  our  lives  but  once 
Each  hath  his  bubble,  sage  or  dunce, 


A  MEMOR  Y  SWEE T.  119 

And  this  is  mine — then  let  me  be  ! 
Give  me  my  isle,  my  tropic  sea, 

My  hut  upon  a  mountain  steep, 

My  fruit  groves  where  the  trade  winds  sweep, 

These  simple  joys,  wealth  without  pelf, 
My  thoughts,  my  dreams,  myself,  myself. 


A  MEMORY  SWEET. 

1HAVE  a  memory,  sweet  and  clear, 
Of  a  woman  whose  name  was  Rest  ; 
Who  folded  me  in  with  warm,  strong  arms 
Away  from  care  and  the  world's  alarms, 
Close  down  on  her  tranquil  breast. 

I  have  a  memory,  clear  and  sweet, 
With  never  a  thought  that  mars, 
Of  tender  lines  'round  a  sensitive  mouth, 
Dark  eyes  that  tell  of  the  tropic  South, 
And  midnight  hair  with  sheen  of  stars. 

I  have  a  memory,  still  more  sweet, 

Of  her  face  aglow  with  joy, 
Of  joy  because  she  stands  near  me — 
Mon  doux  repose  !     Ma  chere  cherie  ! 

In  our  love  there  was  no  alloy. 

I  have  a  memory,  passing  sweet, 
Of  a  dance  that  was  Motion's  rest ; 


WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Of  our  floating,  'neath  the  lovelight's  gleam, 
On  the  eddy  and  swirl  of  music's  stream 
Together,  breast  to  breast. 

O  memory  sweet, 

O  vision  dear, 

O  spirit,  kind, 

From  Love's  bright  sphere — 

Why  am  I  by  thy  presence  blest  ? — 

My  sweet  Repose,  my  Love,  my  Rest. 


A  KNIFE  OF  AGATE. 

LO  ! — a  paper  knife  you  send  me  of  the  agate  of 
Ute  Pass, 
Smoky  clouds  and  mossy  branches   in  a  crystal 

clear  as  glass, 
In  my  pocket  bid  me  place  it,  use  it  for  my  daily 

need, 
'Tis   a  curio  rare  and  dainty — thanks  for  it,  dear 

friend,  indeed  ! 
But  'tis  broken  !— Well,  I'll  mend  it— that  shall  be 

to  us  a  sign 

In  our  friendship:     Yours  the  giving,  but  the  mend 
ing  must  be  mine 
Should  it  break — to  heal  so  deftly  that  a  scar  shall 

scarce  appear 
'Thwart  the  verdure  of  its  mosses,  on  its  field  of 

agate  clear. 


SO  WE  CARE  NO  T. 


SO  WE  CARE  NOT. 

AH,  sweet  Life,  you  cheat  us  always  when  we 
put  our  trust  in  thee  ; 
Only  when  we  doubt  and  care  not  do  you  give  us 

gear  and  fee  ; 
Only  when  we  flout  and  scorn  you  do  you  treat  us 

tenderly  ; 

Only  when  we  build  above  you  are  we  really  rich 
and  free. 

Like  a  woman,  if  you  follow,   she  will  turn  and 

walk  away  ; 
If  you  plead  her  heart  is  hardened  and  she  only 

answers  "  Nay  ;  " 
If  you  laugh  and  look  beyond  her  she  will  closely 

by  you  stay ; 
Let  her  find  your  heart  is  higher,  she  will  court  you 

every  day. 

Seek  for  friends,  and  they  forsake  you  ;  live  for 

love,  you  lose  it  all  ; 
Live  to  love,  and  love  will  give  you  drink  of  ashes 

steeped  in  gall ; 
Build  your  own,  and  all  will  aid  you,  so  you  build 

not  weak  nor  small, 
Love  your  own  and  all  will  bring  you  loving  gifts 

to  heap  your  hall. 


WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


THE  MELODY. 

OSIXG  me  the  melody,  sweet  and  low, 
Of  hearts  that  throb,  of  cheeks  that  glow, 
Of  the  world  transformed  by  a  light  divine 
That  out  of  beautiful  eyes  can  shine. 

Let  a  note  there  be  of  this  mystery,— 
How  the  hair  on  a  girl's  head  witcheth  me, 
How  the  touch  of  a  soft  hand  sets  a-thrill 
All  the  brain  and  nerves  and  the  firm-set  will. 

Let  one  rhyme  sing  of  the  sweet  surprise 
When  the  lone  heart  mirrors  in  loving  eyes, 
When  out  of  the  cold  and  dark  there  form 
Dear  lips  that  kiss,  dear  hands  so  warm. 

Let  a  word  be  heard  of  the  tenderness 
That  a  maid  can  show  in  a  man's  distress  ; 
How  all  things  else  may  a  man  forget — 
Not  a  lovelit  eye  with  its  lashes  wet. 

O  sing  to  me  of  this  melody, 

Music  and  rhythm  and  harmony, 

Of  hearts  a-chime  to  the  dancing  joy 

That  rings  from  the  string  of  the  archer  boy. 


TWEN  TY  KISSES.  1 23 


THERE  ARE  LOVES  AND  LOVES. 

'""THERE  are  loves  and  loves  that  pass  one  by 

1       As  light  as  birds  in  a  summer  sky, 
As  sweet  as  flowers  that  quickly  fade, 
As  little  dreams,  made  and  unmade. 

Their  memories  linger — ah,  how  sweet ! 
But  we  hear  no  more  their  tripping  feet ; 
The  world  laughs  on,  and  we  laugh  too, 
But  we  sigh  sometimes,  as  all  must  do. 

But  loves  there  are,  when  we  lay  supine, 
Which  suddenly  lift,  as  with  touch  divine; 
And  our  lives  grow  rich  with  wealth  untold, 
And  our  nerves  as  bowstrings,  twanging  bold. 

And  these  loves  last,  for  their  lines  are  deep; 
Their  days  are  sun-full,  their  nights  are  sleep; 
With  life  they  live,  and  they  shape  the  breath 
That  lingers  last  on  the  lips  at  death. 


TWENTY  KISSES. 

TWENTY  kisses  on  your  cheek, 
Lady  love,  so  fair; 
Blush  and  pallor,  hide-and-seek, 
Prove  them  welcome  there. 


124  WIND- HARP  SONGS. 

Twenty  kisses  on  your  throat, 
Dainty,  round  and  white; 

Swelling  soft  as  love-tides  float 
Innocent  delight. 

Twenty  kisses  on  your  lips — 
Little  sweetheart,  mine  ! — 

As  the  bee  its  flower  sips 
Thrills  my  mouth  on  thine. 

Twenty  kisses  on  your  hair — 
Little  darling,  sweet ! — 

Could  my  love  print  plainer  there, 
I  would  kiss  your  feet ! 


MY  SOUTH. 

RONDEL. 

Y  sweet  warm  South,  strange  woman  of  the 

sun; 
With  breath  of  soft,  sad  winds  blown  from  her 

mouth, 

Dreamy  with  sighs;  lovelier  there  is  none — 
My  sweet,  warm  South  ! 

With  bare, brown  feet,bathed  by  perpetual  youth, 
She  leadeth  me  through  all  her  bowers  to  run — 
By  solemn  swamps,  still  streams,  and   dunes  of 
drouth. 


BL A CK  ROBIN.  125 

Lo  ! — I  am  Northern,  yet,  wonderful  one  ! — 
I  love  her;  crown  her,  seeing  she  allow'th, 

With  jasmine  gold  her  hair  of  night  outspun — 
My  sweet,  warm  South  ! 


This  moment  hath  its  own  joy. 


BLACK  ROBIN. 

A  WORD  for  you  too, 
Robin, 
Black  pony, 
Beautiful, 
Hard  fighter; 

Many  the  sharp  tussle  we  have  had  together, 
Many  the  flying  gallop  through  the  woods, 
Along  the  shore  road, 

With  glimpses  through  the  trees  of  brown  beach, 
white  sails,  and  wide  stretches  of  water. 

"  Now  boy  ! — Come  sir  !  " 

"  I  will  not !  " — Kicks,  plunges,  short-stops,  shies ; 
head-down,  back-running,  curb-jerks,  white- 
foam,  sweat,  keen  cuts  of  the  rawhide  and 
sharp  words  of  command; — 

Brave  boy  ! 

Always  beaten  but  never  conquered: 

Yet,  after  all,  I  fancy  you  did  not  hate  the  man  who 
would  not  be  thrown  or  troubled; 


126  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

There  was  fighting  friendship  between  us; 

When  I  patted  your  proud  neck  you  would  look  as 

if  you  liked  me; 
And  you  never  took  advantage  of  me  when  I  threw 

the  reins  on  your  neck  and  trusted  you; 
And  I  never  struck  you  without  warning; 
The  gage  of  battle  was  always  fairly  given. 

"  Here,  take  this  apple  !  " — 

Farewell  Robin  ! 

Stubborn,  broad-browed,  stout-hearted,  fearful  of 

nothing; 
Cunning  rogue, 
Glossy  fellow; 
We  shall  go  no  more  together. 


A  DREAM  OF  DREE. 

I  WENT  and  spoke  to  the  wrinkled  tree — 
Tell  me,  friend,  what  life  may  be? 
Its  green  tongues  whispered:  Fates  are  three, 
Life,  my  lad,  is  a  dream  of  dree. 

I  said  to  the  rocks — Can  you  tell  me 
Whether  life  be  a  dream  of  dree  ? 
Their  echoes  answered,  mockingly, 
A  dream — a  dream — a  dream — a  dre — 

I  climbed;  the  mountain  air  was  free. 
Tell  me,  O  hills,  can  this  thing  be  ? 
Their  shadows  pointed  silently  : 
Mapped  below  was  a  dream  of  dree. 


THE  SYL  VAN  SINGERS.  127 

I  asked  the  plains  the  same  query. 
They  stretched  away  unansweringly. 
The  pun  was  grim,  but  I  could  see, 
They  made  it  plain — a  dream  of  dree. 

I  went  and  spake  to  the  sounding  sea, 
Its  waves  came  on  unendingly, 
Each  as  the  last,  and  all  agree 
The  flow  of  life  is  a  dream  of  dree. 

I  questioned  the  heavens — Immensity 
Smiled  down  in  tender  pleasantry: 
It  makes  us  blue,  but  a  dream  of  dree 
Is  life  throughout  infinity. 


THE  SYLVAN  SINGERS. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PAINTING  BY  E.  W.  MC  DOWELL. 

>nPIS  through  the  sylvan  glades  of  Arcady 

1       A  maid  goes  pacing,  piping  fitfully, 
Or  singing  little  wood-songs,  two  or  thee, 

Anent  the  reeds  and  myrtles,  red-rose-blooms, 
The  laurel  glosses  and  the  cypress  glooms, 
The  shifting  sunlight  which  them  all  illumes. 

A  maiden  tall,  fair-formed,  and  bannered  with 
A  silken  flag  of  red-gold  hair,  like  myth 
Of  Dian,  or  the  maids  of  wood  god  kith. 


128  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

At  peace,  akin  with  all  the  furtive  throng 

Of  wild-wood  things  she  dreams  them  not  a  wrong, 

But  prone  upon  the  sward  pipes  them  this  song  : — 

MAID  SONG. 

O  sweet  the  light  on  the  mist-blue  hill  ; 
Sweet  is  the  light  on  the  laughing  rill  ; 
Clear  on  the  rocks  at  the  cavern  door  ; 
Warming  the  moss  on  the  forest  floor  ; 
Pleasantly  falling  on  nest  and  lair, 
Soft  through  the  stream  on  the  cataract  stair. 

Sweet  and  soft  and  bright  and  clear, 
Sweet  is  the  light  and  the  light  is  here. 

( ECHO : 

Sweet — soft— bright  and  clear, 
Sweet — the  light — the  light  is  here  !  ) 

***** 

Then  with  a  flash  and  flutter  of  bright  wings, 

A  little  bird  himself  before  her  flings, 

And  lifting  up  his  throat  thus  blithly  sings  : 

BIRD   SONG. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet — 
Light, 

Light, 

Light ! 

Lips  of  music, 
Eyes  so  bright ; 
Sunshine  hair, 
Shoulders  white ; — 
O  lady  we  love  you, 
We  wood-friends  all ; 


THE  SYLVAN  SINGERS.  129 

We  flutter  above  you, 
We  whistle  and  call  ! 
In  your  breast, 
There  to  nest, 
Would  be  sweet, 
Sweet, 
Sweet ! 
And  the  wood-blossoms  leap  from  the   prints  of 

your  feet, 

And  the  winds  fall  asleep  in  the  net  of  your  hair, 
And  the  dews  never  weep,  but  forget  their  despair 
When  you  walk  where  the  moonbeams  with  you 
are  so  fair, 

Fair, 
Fair  ! 

Clear,  clear,  clear  is  my  voice  ! 
Hear,  hear,  hear  me  rejoice  ! 

Lady,  we  love  you  ! 
Lady  we  love  you  ! 

Lady  we  love  you  here  ! 

( ECHO : 

Lady — love ! 

Lady — love  you  ! 
Lady,  we  love  you  here  ! ) 


130  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 


THE  WORLD. 

"T7  ASHION,  the  world,  society,  to  me 
i        These  ever  are  as  some  brave  board  out 
spread, 

Where  men  and  women  feign  to  feast,  unfed  ; 

Smiling  and  gay,  yet  holding  in  each  eye 

The  piteous  glare  of  hunger's  agony. 

Ah  !  this  alone  is  death,  and  these  the  dead  ; 

And  yet  men  call  it  "  life  "  pitying,  instead, 

The  child-like  soul  that  loves  simplicity. 

A  padded  pomp,  chill  state,  a  gaslight  glare, 
The  bitter-sweet  and  dust  of  discontent, 
Soul-hunger  and  a  secret  none  dare  broach — 

These  are  thy  wages,  world,  thy  servants  wear 
Upon  their  brows  the  stamp  of  manhood  spent, 
Lost  innocence,  and  haunting,  vague  reproach. 


ONE  MORE  SONG.  131 


SOUL  AND  SOIL. 

FAIR  the  flower, 
But  the  roots  are  found 
In  the  rot,  the  grave,  the  ground; 
Its  nutriment  and  need  they  draw 
From  the  corpses  which  they  gnaw. 

So, 

Ebb  and  flow 

Beauty,  power,  life's  sweet  play. 

Chaos,  weakness,  sin,  decay — 

Tips  the  balance  either  way, 

Rules  the  hour. 


ONE  MORE  SONG. 

I   WILL  sing  one  more  song, 
Full  of  bold,  bright  music, 

The  music  of  him  of  the  glad  eyes,  the  quick  step> 
the  brave  brow,  the  laughing  lips,  the  frank 
look,  the  true  word; 
The  music  of  the  free  man. 

A  song  of  daring  thoughts,  of  high  hopes,  of  fear 
less  faith; 
A  song  of  youth; 


132  WIND-HARP  SONGS. 

Of  lilac  skies,  flakes  of  gold,  and  sunrise  over  the 

purple  hills  ; 
A  song  of  morning; 
A  song  of  children  playing  in  the  warm  sand, 

spattering  the  water  with  bare  feet; 
A  song  of  seals  sporting  in  the  surf,    with  soft, 

loving  eyes,  barking  like  dogs; 
A  song  of  bright  peaks,  thunder,  and  the  long, 

quivering  lightning; 
A  song  of  dark  waves,  racing  with  the  west  wind, 

beating  the  rocks  with  a  white  foam; 
A  song  of  sea  gulls; 
A  song  of  brilliant  courage; 
A  song  of  innocent  love; 
A  song  of  red  flowers; 
A  song  of  white  birds  against  a  blue  sky; 
A  song  of  a  rock  in  the  great  sea  which  is  always 

the  same, 

Whether  the  waves  waste  themselves  upon  it, 
Or  foam  at  its  feet; 

Whether  the  ice  arms  it  with  glittering  mail, 
Or  the  sun  blisters  it  with  angry  heat; 
Whether  the  rain  weeps  over  it, 
Or  blue  skies  smile  lovingly; 
Whether  the  birds  scream  hoarsely  about  it, 
Or  come  to  it  for  rest  and  protection; 
It  is  always  there, 
Calm,  strong,  beautiful: — 


"I  am  a  rock,  I  have  foundations,  I  believe  in  my 
self  ; 

I  stand  alone,  or  I  stand  with  you,  but  I  stand 
steadfast; 

I  am  not  troubled,  I  do  not  change — trust  me  !  " 


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